


down to my knees (you're exactly what i need)

by starsandsun, suijin



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Begging, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jung Wooyoung, Brat Jung Wooyoung, Cock Warming, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dry Humping, Dry Orgasm, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Felching, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Light Choking, Light Spanking, M/M, Making Out, Manhandling, Mirror Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Fixation, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Riding, Rimming, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexual Tension, Size Kink, Top Choi San, Under-negotiated Kink, Wall Sex, also featuring enabler yeosang and his tired bf jongho, featuring tattooed san and twink woo, no we don't care, yes it was entirely intentional, yes we are aware there are at least 30 tags in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 42,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsun/pseuds/starsandsun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/suijin/pseuds/suijin
Summary: “For starters, you could tell me your name,” Wooyoung says. “Or...”“Or?”“Or,” Wooyoung starts, and has to fight the urge to laugh when the man’s eyes stay glued onto how he bites his lip in thought. “Or, you could just take me home and fuck me.”The man’s eyes widen again, looking at him with faint disbelief, but then there is a slow smile that hooks up the corners of his lips. Fuck, he looksgood.“I can do both and a whole lot more, if you’d let me.”(Or alternatively, Wooyoung is more than prepared to end his awful dry streak of six months. However, he is not prepared at all for Choi San, who seems to be entirely too willing to give him exactly what he wants. Either way, he's not complaining.)
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 177
Kudos: 448





	1. this dance tonight (promise that you won't forget)

**Author's Note:**

> author 1: it all started when i said i was h**** and tian said nunca hay nada de comer en esta pinche casa  
> author 2: i think it’s my turn to send kq an apology gift basket
> 
> either way here's a filthy mess along with a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/67wGAoR2ysRyGo4YeXu8oQ?si=pcm978NbQu6m8KmPn9gQig) if you want that
> 
> we apologise in advance for any mistakes because author 1 (eafa) is sleep-deprived and author 2 (tian) is american 
> 
> n without further ado...
> 
> enjoy ya nasties xx
> 
> (titles taken from [aphrodite by rini](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUqXDPwsHaI))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wooyoung decides to go clubbing. Or well, it's more like Yeosang and Jongho decide for him.

“Six months.”

Jongho chokes on his gulp of peach iced tea, streams projectile-shooting out of his nose onto his tank top and the table, just barely missing his biochem textbook that’s laid out in front of him.

Yeosang just stares at him with a bewildered expression, something along the lines of disgust and incredulity, ignoring Jongho who is hastily reaching over him for a napkin to clean up the mess.

Summer is hitting them at full force, near suffocating in its entirety since their aircon has been broken for the past year. They’re seated at their kitchen island, Wooyoung on one end while the couple sits in front of him, the sweltering mugginess wrapping around them like some sort of death blanket. In order to beat the heat, they had tiredly made their way out of their bedrooms, sweat waterfalling off their skin. Yeosang, sick of his commissions, had made the decision to go buy (read: force Jongho to go buy) ice lollies because he couldn’t keep his energy up on this dull afternoon.

Or at least it _was_ dull, until they somehow managed to get to the topic of Wooyoung’s self-imposed celibacy.

Wooyoung barely manages to contain his wince when he sees Yeosang’s grip on his lolly tighten, juice dribbling down his fingers and inevitably landing on his shorts. He’s too shocked to even wipe it away, it seems, judging by the fact that he’s still gawking at Wooyoung like he’s been told he has only two weeks to live.  
  
“Wait, can you—can you just repeat that for me real quick?”

“You’re fucking with me,” Jongho says, eyes wide in awe. Or confusion. Or both, but Wooyoung can’t really tell because he’s too busy fighting the urge to slam his head onto the table.

“I _said,”_ Wooyoung grumbles, burying his head in his hands. “It’s been _six months_ since I’ve gotten laid.”

Wooyoung doesn’t blame them for their reactions. So maybe they knew he hadn’t been getting around like he’d used to, post-breakup, but they definitely hadn’t known _how_ long it had been. 

He always had a reputation for bouncing back quickly after his relationships ended, and if he’s being entirely honest, it’s not like his latest ex, Gunwoo, was anything special, really. He doesn’t know why this should be any different—or he does, and he’s just refusing to accept it. It's the fact that yet again, it had to be him. Memories of the night Gunwoo left him still have him feeling unsettled, especially since Wooyoung knows it was entirely his fault.

It’s not like he’s in the wrong, per se, just that he’s too tired to try.

He’s busy enough with work as it is, and being an intern for one of the biggest law firms in all of Seoul has him busting his ass every day—even the weekends at times. He just doesn’t have the time—or the energy—to try to keep someone else’s emotional life together when he can barely manage his own.

And it’s no help either that none of Wooyoung’s previous partners have been able to keep up with or satisfy him the way he likes.

It just makes sense that Yeosang (and by extension, Jongho) would assume Wooyoung would be back to his routine, spending his free time prowling the seedy bars and nightclubs that litter the city streets for quick hookups and one-night stands. Usually he would, but Hongjoong _finally_ asked him for his help on a huge case and it’s a big step forward for him because he’s aiming to be a paralegal, so he’s been spending a lot more late nights at the office instead of in strangers’ beds.

He’d been hoping that he could avoid any sort of discussion of this sort so that Yeosang and Jongho wouldn’t be suspicious and ask questions.

But alas, his roommates had finally caught him on his day off, and had finally caught him in the act.

He looks up.

Jongho whistles under his breath, and Yeosang gently puts down his melting watermelon-flavored sweet.

“Wooyoung,” Yeosang says, his voice carefully neutral. “I just have one question.”

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck.”

Wooyoung opens his mouth to retort but finds that he really doesn’t have any excuse that won’t sound like bullshit to Yeosang, and just closes his mouth again before he can look like a gaping fish.

Yeosang laces his fingers together, expression borderline murderous. “No, really. What the fuck.”

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung replies weakly.

“No wonder you’ve been so pissy lately,” Jongho says. “I thought you were finding shitty lays but the truth is that you’re not getting laid _at all.”_

There is only silence after and it is absolutely deafening, and it’s enough even for Jongho to casually resume sipping his tea like nothing is wrong. Which is the truth, really, but it seems Yeosang disagrees if the following words are any indication.

“Are you telling me you haven’t gotten laid since you and Gunwoo broke up?”

“I haven’t gotten laid _since_ Gunwoo, period,” Wooyoung replies tiredly, running his hands through his hair exasperatedly. Obviously he’d touched himself since, but he never had the time to actually work himself open or be sated like he would with a partner.

Yeosang unlaces his fingers. “Oh my God.”

“No, I’m serious, like—”

Yeosang stands up, the stool screeching against the floor with the weight. His hands are in the air. “Oh my God,” he repeats, tone flat.

“What?”

“I can’t believe this,” Jongho adds as Yeosang walks in the direction of their bedroom.

“Oh my God,” he says again.

“Hey—!” Wooyoung starts, voice coming out more than a little defensive.

“Again, I can’t believe this,” Jongho remarks again by the time Yeosang makes it to his room.

“Oh my God.” Yeosang closes the door.

“Why do you keep saying—”

“Oh my God,” Jongho gently agrees, sagely nodding.  
  
“Oh my _fucking_ God!” echoes from inside.

Wooyoung drops his head onto the table with an audible _thunk,_ groaning at his misfortune and lack of a sex life. He honestly didn’t think it was that bad. He doesn’t know why Yeosang is overreacting.

It’s silent in the kitchen for a few minutes while there are a few thumps from Yeosang and Jongho’s room before Wooyoung hears Yeosang come back out a few minutes later. His best friend has a shit-eating grin on his face and multiple articles of clothing in his arms that Wooyoung recognizes as his clubbing essentials from his Pre-Jongho Hoe Phase.

“What is that,” he deadpans. Yeosang’s smug look only gets smugger as he unceremoniously dumps the load in his arms onto the table. “Yeosang, I have work tomorrow and—“

“No you don’t.”

“What?”

“You,” Yeosang points a manicured finger straight at Wooyoung, “are gonna call in _right now_ and tell whoever the fuck you need to that you’re sick and taking the rest of the week off. This is a national emergency.”

Jongho cuts in, “Uh, I don’t think Wooyoung’s dry streak is considered a _national emer_ — _”_

“Choi Jongho,” Yeosang pronounces carefully, smile as sickly sweet as his forgotten watermelon lolly. “If I hear one more word come out of that pretty little mouth of yours, I _swear to God_ I will shove my fist so far down your throat that you’ll be shitting teeth for weeks. Now shut up and let me deal with this, _dear.”_

Jongho's mouth snaps shut.

Yeosang clears his throat, turning back to Wooyoung with a stern expression. "Jung Wooyoung, you’re calling in sick and that’s final. You need to get some good dick because something that’s _not_ good dick crawled up your ass and died.”

“Sangie, I—I’m in the middle of a case!” Wooyoung sputters, blowing his sticky bangs out of his eyes. “I can’t just, you know, up and leave because I feel like it! This is a high-stress job that requires _commitment_ and _responsibility_ if I want to actually get hired.”

“Oh, honey,” Yeosang coos. “It’s Thursday. Almost the weekend. And high-stress? What better way to de-stress than get your rocks off with someone you just met?"

Wooyoung pointedly looks away from Yeosang, attention momentarily drifting to his phone that lies in front of him. Jongho's phone is playing _Chasing Summer_ quietly, his cheap ripoff JBL speaker buzzing and crackling in an indecipherable drone, accompanying the sound of blaring lunch rush hour horns outside the trio’s apartment window.

"Don't even deny it. You know I’m right.”

And Wooyoung does know. Work is kicking his ass and the bags under his eyes are only getting alarmingly more prominent. He’s even caught himself falling asleep at his desk more often than he’d like to admit while going over the ever-growing pile of paperwork in his office.

A drop of sweat trickles down his neck, the humidity that hangs in the air smothering him. His t-shirt sticks uncomfortably to his armpits. A few days off couldn’t hurt, could it?

He meets the gaze of Jongho, who’s staring at him expectantly with a hint of _you better agree to this or else we’ll both suffer._

He rolls his eyes and sighs, “Fine. But just this once—this once _only._ And you’re paying.”

Yeosang wiggles his eyebrows triumphantly as he unwraps another ice lolly—cherry this time. It’s already half-melted. “That’s what I thought, bitch. Get to dialing.”

Wooyoung reluctantly pulls his phone toward him and makes the call.

It’s the evening when they arrive at _Aurora,_ Yeosang’s favorite gay club, and the boom of the bass inside makes the asphalt beneath their feet vibrate even from outside the building as they wait in line.

Yeosang is practically jumping up and down with excitement, clinging onto a stone-faced Jongho who is evidently not looking forward to a night of supervising his boyfriend and an uptight, sex-deprived paralegal-in-training.

Wooyoung’s dressed head to toe in black, courtesy of Yeosang. He had squeezed into leather pants that make his ass look _fatter than a peach_ in the wise words of Yeosang quoting Travis Scott, because "God did not give you those juicy thighs for you to actively avoid getting laid, baby!" 

He’s also got on a transparent black mesh top that’s a little bit too see-through for his taste but fuck it, it’s been too long since he’s done this anyway. Yeosang had also wrestled him into a chain choker and decked out his ears with more silver, leaving evidence of his finishing touches in some bold eyeshadow and wisps of cat-eye eyeliner on his eyelids.

Once they’re inside, Yeosang snatches seats at the bar, flagging the bartender over for some fruity cocktails that he knows Wooyoung likes.

Wooyoung swivels around on the barstool, surveying the mildly-full dance floor. It’s not as crowded as it could be, considering that it’s still technically a weeknight. But there’s a decent turnout, and the songs that the DJ is currently blasting are attracting more people to the center. Yeosang passes him a tall full glass that reeks of something strong, and Wooyoung knocks it back with no hesitation. It’s about time he lets loose.

The drinks keep coming easy, and they go down easier. He didn't come here to get blackout shitfaced like they used to back in college—he’s here to have fun. And maybe get laid.

(Definitely get laid.)

They're a few drinks in by the time Yeosang asks for a round of shots, Wooyoung feeling pleasantly buzzed. He's just gotten his hands on another glass when Yeosang slurs from his spot next to him, Jongho's hands wandering to places that Wooyoung is pretending not to see, "Hey. Hey, Wooyoung."

"What?"

"Hot guy, like super hot guy, five o'clock."

Wooyoung turns around to take a look.

Yeosang slaps his arm. "No—not my five o'clock, dumbass. Yours. At the table. And don’t ogle. You can’t be too obvious… yet."

And that's when Wooyoung sees _him._

The guy’s hair is jet black, cropped around his temples and neck in an undercut, and Wooyoung has to fight down a groan when he sees the neat rows of metal adorning his ears. His hair is long enough that it falls over his eyes, but it's wet and pretty and Wooyoung wants to sink his fingers into it and _pull._ His jawline is sharp enough to cut diamonds, and so is the straight slope of his nose that leads down to a plush mouth that his tongue swipes over to catch a drop of liquor. Wooyoung shivers.

His eyes are narrow under the purple strobe lights of _Aurora,_ and they look sharp and attentive as he listens to the girl talking next to him, but more than anything, he looks _hungry_ and—and he's staring right at Wooyoung like he wants to devour him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He's not very tall, maybe just an inch or two taller than Wooyoung, but Wooyoung's eyes widen when they rake down his face to stop at his shoulders. He's broad, simple black shirt straining against his arms and pecs and fuck, he's built.

Wooyoung swallows with difficulty once he takes a second to admire the way those wide shoulders dip into an unfairly tiny waist, muscular thighs, stuck on the way those biceps look, extending into veiny forearms and ultimately ending in large hands. The collar of his shirt dips down, just enough that Wooyoung can see a hint of skin and then his mind comes to a screeching halt when he sees something dark—a tattoo, peeking out, ink stark under the flickering lights to the beat of the music.

His eyes flit back up, and then he properly notices.

The man has a lip ring. 

A fucking lip ring.

 _Fuck,_ Wooyoung thinks, _what the fuck._ As if this dude couldn’t get any more attractive.

An elbow finds its way into his side. Shit. He forgot Yeosang’s sitting right next to him. His best friend is cackling like a madman, wiping his chin as if he had just spat out his drink from laughing hysterically at Wooyoung’s dumbfounded reaction.

Wooyoung turns back to his shot glass, face burning from just the sheer _sculpted-by-God,_ unearthly beauty of the guy standing behind him.

Well, he’s not going to worry about that right now. Two can play this game. If the man really wants Wooyoung, he can come get him.

“Let’s go dance,” he says to Yeosang, whose hand is getting to a hazardous elevation on Jongho’s thigh.

“Huh?” Yeosang asks, blinking slow and heavy like that of the lightweight he is. Wooyoung can barely hear his own thoughts over the bassline.

“I said, let’s go dance!” Wooyoung repeats. He hauls Yeosang off of his perch on his stool, practically dragging him and Jongho to the mass of undulating bodies that surge along to the sexy thunder of the 808s that resonates through the massive speakers.

They’re absorbed into the heap of rippling, vaguely-humanoid forms clad in all sorts of fabrics and colors that shift and mutate under the electric neon. The familiar scent of salty sweat and heady hormones permeates the air, and Wooyoung feels the rhythm in his bones, the old dance-minor in him waking up after nearly a year in the dungeon. God, he missed this. He feels Jongho and Yeosang sandwich him, hands on his waist, his hips, looped around him in a suggestive embrace that would look provocative as hell if anyone who didn’t know them saw.

Wooyoung swallows thickly when he raises his head and sees the man staring at him over Yeosang’s shoulder. It's more than obvious that he isn’t even listening to the girl next to him anymore, his fox-like eyes aimed right at where Yeosang has his arms around Wooyoung’s neck, and where Jongho has his hands placed on Wooyoung’s hips, thumbs sliding under the leather just enough to meet the sliver of bare skin from where his shirt rides up.

Wooyoung can have a little fun, can’t he?

He closes his eyes, surrendering to the beat, letting his head fall back onto Jongho’s shoulder and pulling Yeosang flush against him.

When he opens his eyes again, he almost forgets Yeosang and Jongho are there for a moment. There’s a split second where everything around him fades, and he can only see the man standing in the corner with a glass raised to his perfect lips, throat bobbing. Then he feels Jongho’s hand squeezing his waist, and a shiver wracks his spine when he sees the way that the man’s tongue darts out to wet his lip, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. 

Maybe if the man weren’t so clearly interested, Wooyoung would feel ashamed of the way he’s unabashedly taking in the sight of someone as attractive as that, but the dark beats of Banks’s [ _Gemini Feed_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2IeyrEUkBSk) paired up with how the man is sizing Wooyoung up with the intensity of a predator stalking prey has him absolutely reeling. It’s the feeling of Yeosang leaning into him, reaching over his shoulder to give Jongho a kiss, that snaps him out of it.

He just rests his head on Jongho’s shoulder, tipping back to let the man look all he wants as he stares right back while his best friends go right at it as if he isn’t even there.

“Your boy’s staring at you,” Yeosang shouts into Wooyoung’s ear, his volume control long gone.

Wooyoung can’t take his eyes off of the man even when he replies, “I know.”

“He’s coming over here,” Jongho adds, accompanied by a squeal from Yeosang that nearly bursts Wooyoung’s eardrum.

“That’s our cue to leave, Jjongie!”

 _Fuck,_ no, fuck, he’s not ready for this. “Wait, what—no, you guys can’t just—!”

“You’d better be sleeping on a bed tonight and _not_ some good dick. Bye, bitch!” Yeosang gives him a wet smooch on the cheek before detaching himself from Wooyoung, grabbing Jongho, and heading off to probably hook up in the bathroom.

_Fuck._

Wooyoung catches the stranger’s eye again, his gaze still locked onto Wooyoung. _Fuck it,_ he thinks. He’s already in too deep. He might as well commit and go all the way, which is why he lets a sly smile creep onto his face, breathing out a laugh when the man’s eyes widen in surprise at the attention, and judging by the loud cheer that sounds awfully like Yeosang coming from behind him, his roommate agrees as well. 

Feeling a burst of newfound confidence, he turns around, body still moving to the music of its own accord. He feels _alive,_ adrenaline bursting through his veins with excitement, the thrill of the possibility of going home with a stranger tonight the only thing on his mind.

It feels like an eternity before new hands are sliding along his waist, gripping his hips firmly. A hard chest against his back. Fire pressing into him from head to toe, licking every inch of his skin. Without even looking, he knows who it is.

In between the moments that Wooyoung spent with his friends downing shots to them sliding their hands all over him, he thinks he might have just found enough time to memorise the way those fingers look, loosely holding a glass. He just knows, somewhere in his subconscious, that it’s the man from the corner. One flick of his gaze downward tells him he’s right, thick fingers decorated with rings—metallic, black, thick, thin—pressing against his hip bones, keeping their bodies flush together. The alcohol in his system only magnifies his excitement. 

Wooyoung smirks to himself before leaning back to whisper, “Took you long enough.”

A melodious laugh rings out from behind him, and Wooyoung can’t help the heat that already starts building in the pit of his gut. “Did I keep you waiting?”

Fuck. His voice is pretty. His laugh almost makes it seem like the man has a light, warm tone for a second but Wooyoung doesn’t know how to feel now that he’s heard it because it’s low. It’s low and deep and delectable just like dark chocolate, and Wooyoung kind of wants to hear how it sounds when Wooyoung’s sitting on his dick. It’s calm, gentle almost, but it’s decadent and seductive and the invitation behind it is more than clear even with the deafening noise around them.

Wooyoung just hums in response. “You did.”

The grip on his waist tightens, and Wooyoung can’t help but smile when the man replies, head dropping close enough that Wooyoung can feel his breath ghosting against his ear, hot and sultry. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“How can I make it up to you?” The man murmurs, teasing, his smile more than audible in his voice, and _oh,_ he’s _good_ too. Smooth, maybe even obvious, because it doesn’t take an idiot to understand just where this conversation is headed, and the way the man’s fingers are slipping under the hem of his leather pants, blunt nails lightly digging into his skin, has Wooyoung shivering. 

But if anything, Wooyoung is just as good. Better. Witty, even. That's exactly why he replies airily, “I can think of a lot of things that you could do.”

“Like what?” He asks, fingertips skimming against the skin right below Wooyoung’s stomach. His eyes almost roll back at the feeling. Fuck, he’s desperate. Maybe even more so because this man dancing behind him is the total package—a ten, an _eleven,_ when Gunwoo was a seven at best. Absolutely fucking perfect. Chef’s kiss. The whole nine yards.

“For starters, you could tell me your name,” Wooyoung says, turning around to face the man. There is a half smile playing on his lips, and Wooyoung’s breath stutters when he sees the way the black ring looks against the pink of those lips, reaching up to—dimples. Wooyoung’s brain malfunctions.

 _Dimples._

He’s snapped out of it by the feeling of fingers sliding against his skin, and the hand that had stayed on his hip is large, warm, impossibly thick with calloused fingertips. Wooyoung wants those fingers in his hair within the next thirty seconds. “Or…” 

“Or?” 

The hand lingers on his hip, thumb pressing against the jut of his hip bone. The man looks incredibly amused, foreheads almost touching when Wooyoung almost melts into his body, arms sliding up to wind around the back of the man’s neck to pull him impossibly closer. He was right. He is just an inch shorter, but that doesn't matter when another hand finds its way to the small of his back, large palm splayed out over the material of his top. The heat from his hand bleeds into Wooyoung’s skin, leaving an invisible imprint.

“Or,” Wooyoung starts, and has to fight the urge to laugh when the man’s eyes stay glued onto how he bites his lip in thought. Those eyes, intelligent and mysterious, flick back up, and Wooyoung’s lips immediately curve into a cunning smile, because the man has that hungry look on his face again. Like he wants to eat Wooyoung alive, and he would if they weren’t currently grinding against each other in a sweaty crowd. “Or, you could just take me home and fuck me.”

The man’s eyes widen again, looking at him with faint disbelief, but then there is a slow smile that hooks up the corners of his lips, exposing a hint of straight, white teeth. Fuck, he looks _good._ If the man wasn’t this obvious about how he feels then Wooyoung might just crawl into a hole and die about the fact that he actually said that within minutes of just talking. The man laughs again, his dimples appearing on his cheeks the more his smile widens.

Wooyoung can feel his gut tighten a little at the sight.

And then the man’s murmuring, glowing like a god under the velvet lights that dance across his skin, a mix of navy and indigo and purple across pale alabaster. “I can do both and a whole lot more, if you’d let me.”

It takes everything in Wooyoung to not kiss him right then and there.

“Is that so?” He says instead, bringing his fingers closer to the man to play with the soft hair at the nape of his neck, twisting in the strands and tugging just a little. “What’s your name?”

The man stares at him for a few seconds before answering, a small smile playing on his lips. “San. What’s yours?”

_San._

Wooyoung wants to melt into the floor. 

“Wooyoung,” he says, a teasing grin on his face. “Do you always work this fast, _San?”_

Those eyes flutter shut, fingers squeezing around his waist again, and yeah, he thinks, he’s still got it. He might have been out of the game for long enough that he would have had difficulty bagging someone for the night, but the way the man’s forehead drops to press against his is the only sign he needs to rock his body, the ending of whatever song playing fading into something even slower, darker, dirtier, giving way to the dreamy reverb of [ PartyNextDoor](http://youtube.com/watch?v=bUNrhfzWHao) crooning _you get the best of me, whatever is left of me._

“I could say the same to you, considering you asked me to fuck you before you even knew my name,” San says softly, eyes locked with Wooyoung’s. Something about the amusement in his gaze makes Wooyoung’s skin prickle. “But no, I don’t usually have to work at all.”

The statement makes him snort. “Does that line usually work for you?”

“I don’t have to use any lines to get what I want, trust me,” San replies, one hand sneakily reaching around, sliding under Wooyoung’s shirt, splaying out over his back. Wooyoung’s skin tingles. “I’ve found that with other people, my mouth is usually occupied doing something else in the same amount of time it’s taken for me to talk to you.”

The grin is back at full force at that, because _wow,_ the guy’s sharp too. With Gunwoo, it had been a simple _wanna fuck?_ followed by an even simpler _your place or mine?_ and to have it dragged out like this, even if it isn’t by much, has his skin tightening, breath catching in his throat. Maybe Wooyoung had finally met his match. Someone who could keep up with him. His heart thrums with the thrill of the chase.

“You telling me I’m special?” Wooyoung teases.

“I’m not that cheesy,” San laughs, leaning into Wooyoung, their chests pressed together. This way, Wooyoung can see him even better than earlier, can feel the way that chest leads down to a lean body, hard and steady just how Wooyoung likes. He can finally see the ink that peeks out from under his shirt, not enough for him to know what the design is, but enough to know that it looks good against his pale skin, black edges swirling around the hard planes of his chest, maybe even dipping into his torso. He wonders if he’ll get to see it tonight. 

He _hopes_ he’ll get to see it tonight.

When San inches forward again, for a second, he focuses on the way the man feels against him, the way those hands feel around his waist, but then his brain short circuits when he feels the San’s cock against his hip, hard and heavy, just like Wooyoung.

“Yeah?” Wooyoung breathes out, fingers tugging harder at the man’s hair. “What happened to _I usually don’t have to work at all?”_

A surprised chuckle bursts out of San. “Hey, I’ll have you know that that line always works.”

“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung says, incredulous, disbelief seeping into his voice. Shit, he’s just mocking, but he hates that despite the refusal, San might actually be correct. Or he definitely is, because it’s working and Wooyoung would slide down to his knees and taste him right there if he had the chance. Or even let him fuck Wooyoung against the wall, because those arms could definitely handle more than that.

“In fact, I’d say it worked on you too.”

“Hmm, not so sure about that,” Wooyoung whispers, and San’s lips dip into a frown.

His gaze drops to Wooyoung’s mouth, flicking back up to his eyes in just a split second, but Wooyoung’s too fixated on the way San has been eyeing him for him to miss it. San leans in, lifting a hand from his hip to take his chin between his fingers. The touch is surprisingly delicate, considering his other hand has a death grip on his waist. 

“Maybe I should try something else then.”

Wooyoung opens his mouth to ask what that could be, but it seems that San doesn’t want to wait for a response because his thumb presses against Wooyoung’s bottom lip. 

He doesn’t take it any further, pressure gentle and insistent, but Wooyoung _wants._ And what Wooyoung wants, Wooyoung gets, so he does it for San. He parts his lips, watching the way San’s eyes darken with desire, violet lights reflected in his pupils when his thumb slides in, pressing down on Wooyoung’s tongue lightly. Wooyoung closes his lips around it, sucking on the tip and reveling in the slight taste of salt, teeth barely grazing the skin.

San swallows thickly at that, and Wooyoung is more than pleased to hear the way San’s voice shakes when he breathes out, “Fuck.”

Wooyoung swirls his tongue around the pad of San’s thumb before pulling off with a pop, kissing it tenderly, all the while maintaining eye contact with San. _Got you._

_Give you my all, so you know you’re mine._

Wooyoung knows his smirk is devilish when he leans in to purr into San’s ear, “Here’s something about me: I don’t usually have to work either.”

San takes Wooyoung’s proximity as an invitation to brush his lips against Wooyoung’s earlobe, teeth catching on the sensitive skin and making Wooyoung’s knees turn to jelly. “Is that so?” It’s a mirror of their conversation a few minutes prior, and Wooyoung knows he’s met his match.

Wooyoung pulls back, forehead touching San’s again, eyes lowering not-so-subtly down to San’s lips. San’s lip ring. He wonders what San tastes like. “Why don’t you find out?”

He is given no warning before San leans forward and kisses him.

It’s surprisingly gentle, just a warm press of the lips for a few seconds. That changes as soon as Wooyoung hums against him, and then San is kissing him with a type of desperation that has him trembling, a small whine bubbling up in the back of his throat when that goddamned piercing slides against his lip.

San’s lips are like downy, metal on his lip slightly cold against the warmth of his mouth, and the contrast has Wooyoung shoving down a moan. His mouth tastes like the peach soju he was drinking earlier, the shade of a sweet flavor that has Wooyoung diving in for more, more, more, chasing after a sugary high that heats him up from the inside. Somehow San’s got him more drunk than the shots he had with Yeosang earlier. It has Wooyoung sighing into the kiss, parting his lips for San to swipe his tongue along the seam of his mouth, sucking on his tongue playfully when San offers access before reciprocating, teasing his ring.

They’re not even dancing at this point, just making out on the dance floor as bodies gyrate around them, but it’s not like they were ever really dancing anyway. Each kiss is slow, time-stopping, seemingly designed by San to tantalize Wooyoung and drive him crazy. Wooyoung pulls back after what feels like an eternity, his breath stolen by San, who is smiling lazily, eyes already half-lidded. A string of saliva joins them still, and it would be absolutely fucking disgusting if Wooyoung wasn’t so fucking turned on by this man.

The DJ’s songs are starting to become more upbeat, the lights in sync with the [ trap hi-hats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnvUMFmxP70) transforming into a dark red, reflecting in San’s scintillating eyes and glinting off of his piercing. Wooyoung’s blood is singing. “Let’s go,” Wooyoung urges, panting still. He doesn’t know exactly how the night is gonna play out, but he knows what he wants, and he wants it as soon as possible, otherwise he’s gonna lose his mind.

Thankfully, San doesn’t ask where, but what he does say next has Wooyoung nearly begging San to fuck him right then and there. “I was thinking the same thing.” San tilts his head, tongue swiping out to no doubt savor the remnants of Wooyoung’s cherry lip gloss. “I’d love to…get to know you better.”

The line is laughable but sexy at the same time, which is why Wooyoung can only manage an airy reply. “Get to _know me better?”_

“Mhmm,” San says, drawing out the syllable. That smile still hasn’t left his face. “Last I checked, fucking you into the floor counts as getting to know you.” 

Oh, so they’re on the same page then. 

Wooyoung’s breath gets caught in his throat, and he’d rather San not see the blush rising high on his cheeks even though there’s really no way San can through the dim lighting, so he just turns around, fervently tugging San through the crowd as quickly as possible without the both of them falling over. They both stumble through throngs of people toward the exit. Wooyoung sees Yeosang and Jongho on their previous barstools. Yeosang catches sight of them, clearly winking and attempting to wolf whistle, but it’s lost in the din of the augmented ear-splitting instrumental surging through the air. Wooyoung only rolls his eyes and continues on his mission, San obediently letting Wooyoung lead him out.

The alley bordering the club is empty, which means that Wooyoung could be a victim of murder if San is somehow a serial killer, but he’s too turned on to give a shit. The summer night breeze is cold and refreshing in Wooyoung’s lungs, but the chill from the sweat on his skin is lost in the furnace of San’s as San pushes him up against the rough brick of the alley wall. Wooyoung connects their lips like he’s a starved man and San’s a full course meal.

Now his senses are not overloaded with other people—now they’re overloaded with San. His taste like peach soju. And his scent—oh _God,_ his scent. It’s flowery but with a hint of something masculine, like a breath of fresh air. Is that… jasmine?

Either way, it doesn't even matter because he's gone dizzy with it, head all foggy from the way that San tastes and smells, overwhelming in its entirety and just so, so perfect that Wooyoung thinks just this could be enough to make him come in his pants if San keeps it up. Even the mere wet slide of their mouths together has him squeezing his thighs together, rubbing, aching to feel some sort of relief because fuck, he's so hard that it actually hurts.

Those lips leave his, dragging down his cheek, over his pounding pulse—it’s wet and messy and dirty in the best way possible and the feeling is enough to have Wooyoung’s legs threatening to give out beneath him. San mouths along his jaw, all tongue and teeth, teasing, and as soon as a sharp whine slips out of his mouth, there is a pause and Wooyoung shivers when he sees the way San’s eyes shimmer in the dark.

It has Wooyoung leaning back in immediately.

“You know,” Wooyoung puffs between kisses, voice husky, “If I was willing to get my pants dirty, I’d get on my knees and blow you right here.” And he really means every word.

He can feel San smile into the next kiss, his words even gruffer than Wooyoung’s. “Yeah? You that good?”

Wooyoung leans back, San literally supporting Wooyoung’s whole weight against the brick. San looks unreal under the yellow streetlights. Wooyoung can see his lips are swollen and scarlet, kiss-bitten and slick with spit. Wooyoung nods gravely. “Can confirm I can suck your soul through your dick if you let me.”

San laughs, genuinely amused. His eyes turn into crescents and his goddamn cute dimples make an appearance again. The sound is surprisingly warm, and it makes Wooyoung crack a smile too. “I’ll have to take you up on that offer then.” He moves forward again, capturing Wooyoung’s lips in his, his movements only adding fuel to the fire in the pit of Wooyoung’s stomach.

Then Wooyoung has a thought. Possibly a Very Serious Thought. And it’s also totally not driven by the fact he’s been hard the entire time he’s known San _because_ of San, and he can feel that San is just as aroused.

“San.” 

Wooyoung’s serious now, because this is a Very Serious Thought. If San cannot deliver on this Very Serious Thought, then Wooyoung might just cry and never have sex again, and maybe even move to Tibet to become a Buddhist monk and be celibate for real.

Their foreheads rest together again, and they’re breathing in each other’s breaths. 

“Hm?” San’s stare is still fixed on Wooyoung’s mouth, but he leans in to place spaced-out, soft kisses at the corner, blazing a trail across Wooyoung’s cheek. He can feel San’s lips and teeth grazing along his skin, going along his jaw and down his throat and the feeling is enough to have his body go from simmering to absolutely boiling, and yeah, he’s reached his breaking point.

It’s been long enough.

And that’s why he finally says it.

“Are you clean?”

San pulls back just the slightest, enough for Wooyoung to see the way his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Yes?”

_Thank God._

“Okay, good,” Wooyoung breathes out, and then he’s leaning back in to give San another kiss. He can’t help the quiet groan that slips out of his mouth when he feels one of San’s hands slide under his shirt, rough palm dragging against his skin in a touch so scorching that he shivers almost immediately. _“Ah,_ San—”

“Why do you ask?” San asks in the split second they pull apart for air, voice more than a little breathless.

He can’t help the smirk that makes its way onto his face when he hears the question. His hands draw zig-zagging patterns up San’s chest, ghosting over the pretty column of his thick throat, memorizing the way the skin jumps under his touch, the way he can feel San’s pulse pumping. And then he leans up to whisper in San’s ear, “Because the only thing I’ve been thinking about all fucking night is how good you’d make me feel when you finally fill me up.”

“Fucking hell, Wooyoung,” San groans, and the way those hands squeeze his waist again has his breath hitching. And then the man pops the question of the hour. “My place or yours?”

 _Yeah,_ Wooyoung thinks, he’s still got it.

Wooyoung mouths along San’s jaw, teeth grazing the smooth skin. His aftershave is delightfully intoxicating. “Yours,” he breathes. The last thing he needs is for Yeosang and Jongho to eavesdrop on his overdue sexy times and later assault San in the morning with an interview.

“Great— _fuck, Wooyoung_ —you’re gonna fucking kill me.” 

Wooyoung smiles as he feels San shudder against him when he nibbles at a sensitive spot on his neck, San’s fingers squeezing into his waist. Wooyoung feels so small in San’s hold and he _loves_ it. “Let me call an Uber.”

Wooyoung regretfully unpeels himself from San long enough for San to pull his phone out of his back pocket, but it’s only about 30 seconds before their mouths are clashing together again, teeth clacking with their eagerness.

He doesn’t know how long they stand out there for. It could have been a few minutes, or maybe even an hour, but he pays no mind to that because he is way too focused on how San tastes and how he feels pressed against him. He can barely think, having been reduced to a mess of whimpers and quiet groans, and the only reason that he even manages to snap out of it is because he can hear an impatient honk ringing loudly from right outside the alley, and then he’s pushing San off of him and dragging him to the car.

The ride back to San’s feels like a fever dream, Wooyoung practically in San’s lap and maliciously teasing him, hands roaming wherever they please. If public decency wasn’t a thing, Wooyoung would have climbed onto him, rolled his hips, or maybe even slid down between San’s legs and unzipped his jeans to suck him off right there in the backseat. Whenever Wooyoung’s hands get dangerously close to San’s crotch, San just squeezes his thigh.

They’re nearly tripping and falling as they tumble out of the cab, San trying to simultaneously shepherd Wooyoung into his apartment building, retrieve his keys, and keep his attention (read: hands and mouth) on Wooyoung. The night guard at the front eyes them suspiciously, but Wooyoung honestly doesn’t give a shit who sees them because this is going to be his first real fuck in six months, which is six months too long, and on top of that, he knows it’s going to be one to remember.

The elevator feels like it’s purposely engineered to ascend too slowly. San has him pressed up against the wall, Wooyoung’s fingers fumbling against it to maintain his balance as he bites back whines so the other tenants of the building don’t know their elevator is being defiled.

He can’t get enough of San. The two layers of clothing between them are two too many. Wooyoung needs to get fucked, and he needs it _now._

They’re clambering out of the elevator, staggering down the hallway. “Here,” San growls. Then the key is in the lock, and the door swings open.

Yeah, Wooyoung thinks again, he’s definitely still got it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes the word count is 6969 and yes that was completely intentional x


	2. one thing for sure (you're the only one i want)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wooyoung and San get down and dirty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **DISCLAIMER:**  
>  \- UNDERNEGOTIATED KINKPLAY!!! they just meet n do things  
> \- safe, sane and consensual, but this is NOT an accurate representation of bdsm so pls do not do this irl  
> \- san is a mean dom, lots n lots of humiliation  
> \- woo pulls away/says no because he's overwhelmed but they have a safeword so the assumption here is that he doesn't mean it
> 
> if any of these makes you uncomfortable, feel free to close the tab :) if not, then we sincerely hope you enjoy part one of this horny mess hehe
> 
> here's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/67wGAoR2ysRyGo4YeXu8oQ?si=pcm978NbQu6m8KmPn9gQig)

San is all over him the second the door to his apartment clicks shut behind them. 

Rough hands squeeze at his waist while San pushes into him, mouths pressed together with a type of hunger that has him going woozy, faint because it’s been too long since anybody touched him like this—it’s been so long since anybody touched him at all, and San’s so desperate with the way he groans into his skin that it has Wooyoung absolutely reeling. It’s lewd and Wooyoung is just as nasty, if not worse, which is why he lets San push him back until he’s hitting the wall with a thud that nearly knocks the wind out of him.

It should hurt, the way his head slams against the wall, but Wooyoung is way too busy moaning into San’s mouth for him to be worried about the bump that’ll appear in a few hours. Instead, he’s all too focused on the blunt nails that have masterfully slipped under his shirt and dig painfully into his skin, sinking in deep enough that he just knows there’ll be red half-moons there by the end of the night, and he hates that he _likes_ it. He _wants_ San to mark him up as much as possible, leave impressions of his own body on Wooyoung’s, for Wooyoung to see and feel and remember whenever he looks at his reflection.

They only separate long enough for them to kick off their shoes before they go right back at it. A growl rumbles in San’s throat before he presses forward again, sucking on Wooyoung’s bottom lip and Wooyoung can’t help the whimper that slips out then because one of San’s hands leave his hips, dragging up before it tangles in his hair and _yanks._

And then he feels San’s lips curve into a smile, amused and mocking and vicious just how Wooyoung likes it.

But Wooyoung is not one to let anyone get ahead of him.

That’s why he just hums contentedly, tracing his tongue across the seam of San’s mouth, paying special attention to his ring. It takes no time at all for San to accept, lips parting instantly to let Wooyoung have his fun, and Wooyoung melts. There’s a sharp pain blooming across his scalp and bruises forming on his hip but he can’t think about anything but the fact that he’s got a man like this wrapped around his finger, tasting him and licking the roof of his mouth, and _fuck._

Fuck, why did it take him so long to get here? Why didn’t he do this sooner?

He would be embarrassed by that he’s been hard since they danced together if not for the fact that San looks equally wrecked, eyes half-lidded and mouth swollen and red, breath puffing out warm against his neck.

The hands on his waist squeeze again before they slide over his hip and grab his ass, pulling him between San’s legs. His eyes slip shut in seconds, a light shudder making its way up and down his spine when he feels San’s thigh nudge his legs apart before pressing in hard, pushing him down.

“Sannie,” Wooyoung gasps wetly. The name slips out automatically again when his head tips back onto the wall, hazily looking at San who’s still got him pinned to the wall while his thigh keeps pressing against his cock through his pants that are definitely way too tight now. The relief is unbelievable even through the layers separating them because he hadn’t realized just how long he’d been waiting to do this.

How long has it been since someone actually took care of him like he wanted, not like the shitty ten-minute lays he had with Gunwoo when they were together?

His hands fly up to grab onto San’s shoulders, scrabbling for purchase when he feels his knees go weak, trying to find balance while San rocks into him, hand in his hair tightening the more Wooyoung’s hips stutter.

Then San’s murmuring, breath warm against his neck. “What’s your safeword?”

Oh.

So that’s how far they’re going tonight.

It’s humiliating how quick he is to respond. 

“Red. Three taps on the thigh if I can’t—” he starts, and then promptly flushes. San would be a fool if he doesn’t know where Wooyoung’s going with this, and the grin San aims at him tells him that the man definitely knows.

But San’s clearly an asshole, which is why he just hums, wanting Wooyoung to finish his sentence. “Can’t what?”

Oh, hell. Wooyoung’s reply is barely louder than a whisper. “If I can’t…talk.”

San just laughs lowly before leaning back in to kiss him.

It’s humiliating how quick he is to respond, but it’s even worse just how close he is already with San’s mouth pressed against his, with San’s hand guiding him into slow rolls of hips, circling slowly as they ease into a filthy grind that has goosebumps erupting all over his skin. The groan that San lets out into his mouth has him struggling to fight down his own, and his entire body jolts against San’s large frame when San presses his thigh in harder, Wooyoung clinging onto the man for dear life while his nails sink into those wide shoulders painfully.

Wooyoung has no fucking clue how he’s even managing to still stay upright like this, head against the wall while his legs almost give in at the feeling of San’s lips leaving his, dragging against his cheek before landing on his neck and nibbling softly. 

He hates that he’s already in shambles, a violent red creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks, legs spreading as wide as he can in his tight pants, rutting against San’s thigh to get just the right angle.

“Yeah, that’s it,” San breathes. “Just like that, sweetheart. Just like that.”

Fucking hell.

A whimper climbs out of his throat when he feels San smile against his skin before coming back to give him a kiss, and he’s left lightheaded by the feeling of San crowding him into the wall that he can’t help the way he’s already panting, reduced to a complete mess against the drywall of San’s hallway.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna come already,” San murmurs, lips curving into an impish smile as they press into the smooth, unmarked junction of where Wooyoung’s neck meets his collarbone. “We’ve got all night.”

And with that, he bites down.

_Hard._

Where was this man hiding all along?

Wooyoung arches into San, who’s supporting him against the wall entirely now, completely at his mercy. A whine slips out at the mere thought of it, San keeping him pinned to the wall with what looks like very little effort, the sound rattling his chest with how embarrassingly loud he is, and _God,_ he needs it. He needs it so fucking badly that he’s seconds from sliding down to his knees to beg if that’s what it takes.

He needs it badly enough that a strangled sob slips out when San’s hand tightens in his hair before jerking his head back again, heat pooling in his belly so quickly that it has his toes curling.

The haze of thoughts clears just enough for him to realize that he’s actually going to come in his pants.

He hadn’t realised that his eyes had slipped shut, but judging by just how hard they were squeezed means it’s been a while. He’s way too aware of the feeling of the leather hugging him, the spring coiling even tighter in his stomach, the way San’s hand pushes him back and forth on his thigh like he’s a dog and fuck, it’s like they’re horny teenagers. They haven’t even made it to the bedroom. Shit, they haven’t even taken off their clothes yet.

Wooyoung is so far gone that he’s genuinely about to come in a matter of seconds if the churning in his gut is any indication, blues and greens drifting across the darkness of his eyelids, but it seems that San has noticed as well because he simply stops.

He barely manages to shove down the frustrated yell that’s sitting on the top of his tongue, and he glares at San with teary, half-lidded eyes while the man just laughs, pressing an apologetic kiss against the bite mark that he’s left behind, tongue peeking out to lick along the bruise before he pulls back again.

“Can’t have you tapping out that fast,” San says slyly, and a filthy moan slips out of Wooyoung’s mouth, harsh and shameless, when San’s hand comes down on his ass, smacking loud enough that it almost echoes in San’s tiny hallway and making Wooyoung jump. “Or are you telling me that we should stop?”

That’s enough for Wooyoung to snap out of his lust-induced delirium.

“If you _fucking_ stop,” Wooyoung croaks angrily, voice raspy to his own ears but with no real bite to the bark, “I swear to God I will walk out of here and find someone else who’s worth my time.”

“Aw, that’s not very nice,” San tuts, grabbing Wooyoung by the waist and pulling him close enough that they’re pressed together. Wooyoung can see that San’s pupils are blown wide with desire, and he can feel that San’s also hard, hot and heavy, through his jeans. “You’re in no position to make demands. If you wanna come that badly, you just gotta ask, sweetheart. _Politely."_

“Bite me.”

“Already have,” San murmurs, and then the corners of his lips hook up into a fiendish grin. “Come on, Wooyoung. Ask for it.” 

"Never."

He leans in, breath tickling the shell of Wooyoung’s ear, sending shockwaves shooting to every single one of Wooyoung’s nerve endings. _“Beg.”_

Wooyoung’s body aches with sheer _need,_ so much that it’s nearly driving him insane. He can’t think about much else.

“Fuck, I—” he hisses, eyes falling shut and angry tears clinging onto his eyelashes. The delicious friction that San had provided is missing now and Wooyoung’s so excruciatingly sexually frustrated that if he doesn’t get to come soon, he’s going to break down and cry. He can’t even remember the last time he got what he wanted just the way he wanted it. And here is San right in front of him, ready to give it to him.

Maybe that’s why he puts his pride aside, giving in. 

_“Please,”_ Wooyoung moans, the word broken and cracking.

“Please what?” San mutters, biting Wooyoung’s earlobe, tongue hot and searing as it smooths over the sting. He mouths over Wooyoung’s jawline, tasting where tears have tracked their way down, hanging like melting icicles off of his skin.

“Touch me,” Wooyoung breathes out, hips bucking when he feels San's hold on him tighten at the taste of him, and Wooyoung is left spiralling by the belated realization that he _likes_ it, likes the way San's teeth sink into him, likes the way he’s licking along the salt and the edges of the marks that he’s leaving behind. “Please touch me, San. I need it.”

"There we go," San sneers, voice laden with amusement. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

 _"Shut up,_ you asshole,” Wooyoung whines, and the words tremble in his throat the more he shakes against San. "I did what you asked so will you please just _let me come—"_

"Mm, I don't think you've earned it yet," San says casually, words almost muffled by his neck, and the only reason he knows San is on the verge of losing control too is because of the way his hands tighten around Wooyoung. "What do you think? Do you think you deserve it?"

 _"Yes,"_ Wooyoung slurs, thoughts clouded with _want, want, want._ No, he _needs_ it, needs San to touch him, needs to come so badly. It’s driving him crazy. _“Please,_ Sannie, I—”

"You're a greedy little shit, Youngie," San just hums. "Makes me wanna not touch you at all. Watch you get off on my cock all on your own, hm?"

_No._

“No, no, please— _please,_ I’ll work for it,” Wooyoung rambles, eyes wet as he leans back, hips bucking, aching to feel San’s cock against him, aching to feel San finally touch him and make him come. He pants, “I’ll do anything, I _swear—”_

San gently squeezes his waist once, twice before pressing a soft kiss on the side of his neck again, purring, “C’mon, Wooyoung, that’s not how you ask for things.”

“Sannie,” he breathes out. “Can I come, please?”

“You wanna come that badly?”

San’s fingers slide up, dragging up his cheeks before he yanks Wooyoung’s head back as much as he can, forcing Wooyoung to stay still and look back at him and—and God, the absolutely _sinful_ smile playing on San’s face shouldn’t affect him this much, he thinks, but the sight of San looking at him like that has him embarrassingly close again.

“You said you’d do anything to get off, didn’t you?”

Wooyoung blinks, mind too muddled to concentrate and try to understand what San is getting at. He almost wants to argue, and it might be because he’s a bit of a brat, but he wants to come and it's been way too long since somebody else has gotten him off, and San has made him wait long enough that he’s genuinely going to burst into tears. But he knows San will make him wait even longer if he complains, and that is exactly why he just lowers his eyes in submission, nodding meekly.

“On your knees.”

Holy shit.

_Holy shit._

It takes no more than two seconds for him to drop to his knees.

It’s surprisingly easy to ignore the pain that spreads through his legs when they knock into the floor, because San just takes one small step back, enough to give Wooyoung the perfect amount of room to have his back still pressed against the wall while San’s in front of him. Wooyoung can’t help but lick his lips at the sight of San looking down at him like that, fingers immediately working to unbuckle his belt and undo the buttons on his jeans, shoving them down along with his briefs just enough to get his dick out. 

The air is rushing out of his lungs in seconds flat.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, and he can’t help the shiver that wracks his entire body when San laughs at him from above. 

Judging by the heat he had felt at the base of his spine when they danced together, he isn’t too surprised by the sight, but to actually be on his knees and see it for himself is an entirely different story, he thinks, because San is _thick._ Not unreasonably long, but thick enough that Wooyoung just knows it’ll leave a deep ache in his jaw for ages. Just the right size for him to be limping in the morning. Pretty and pink and just absolutely fucking perfect. Wooyoung wants it in his mouth. 

The thought of wrapping his lips around it has him squeezing his thighs shut in anticipation.

San inches forward, almost-fondly gazing down at Wooyoung. San’s holding himself and dragging the head of his cock against Wooyoung’s lips, an ironically gentle smile on his face while his other hand thumbs tears across Wooyoung’s cheek before going to fist in his hair.

The sheer contrast between the look on his face and what they’re doing has Wooyoung reeling, but the words that leave San’s mouth are even worse.

“Get to work,” San murmurs, all roguish and commanding, and his smile widens when he sees Wooyoung’s mouth opening without a single protest, tongue darting out to taste the tip.

San’s hand yanks at his hair to pull him forward, nudging his lips with his cock, sliding all the way in at once. The grin on his face widens, eyes glittering mirthfully in the dim, when he sees the way Wooyoung’s head sinks all the way down to the base with ease, eyes aimed right at San while his nose is pressing into San’s skin, not even choking in the slightest. _“Wow,_ didn’t even gag, huh?”

Wooyoung can’t help the groan that slips out at that, and San inhales sharply when he feels the vibrations against his skin, hand fisting Wooyoung’s hair while he slides out before slowly easing his way in again at an absolutely agonising pace. More than the muffled whines, Wooyoung’s infinitely more embarrassed by the fact that San’s other hand goes to brush over against his cheek, thumb digging into the bulge.

“Jesus, look at you,” San breathes out, grip in his hair tightening. His eyes widen at the weight of San’s cock on his tongue and the taste that lingers, and he has to blink away tears when he looks up innocently at San, who simply gives a shallow thrust, knowing Wooyoung is in no position to actually retort.

His eyes flutter shut the second San’s fingers dig deeper into his hair, pushing his head down all the way. God, maybe it’s a relief that San’s hips barely roll. He might have been good at this once upon a time but San is rough and it’s been long enough that Wooyoung is struggling a bit, throat closing up against his will.

“Damn, Youngie,” San jeers, “didn’t realize your mouth was good for something other than talking your ass off.”

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, _what the fuck is happening,_ unable to stop the moan that slips out at the words because it’s so fucking embarrassing. The humiliation of being on his knees was one thing, but he’s more horrified to realize that he likes how San is treating him, like a toy made just for him. The thought alone is enough to have him groaning again, the blood in his face forgotten as it all goes down south. 

Even then, the humiliation is worth it—he knows what San means, and he can’t help but preen a little at the praise, as embarrassed as he is, dizzy by the fact that San is telling him that he’s good, that he’s doing well.

His pants are somehow getting impossibly tighter by the second, and God, he needs to come so fucking badly, he can’t help but sneak a hand from where it’s pressed on San’s thigh to try and palm himself through the material to relieve the pressure. 

It doesn’t take any more than a minute before San notices what he’s doing, hand dragging against the leather, and Wooyoung can’t help but avert his eyes in shame the second he catches sight of the frown that takes over San’s face. 

“Don’t remember telling you that you could touch yourself, sweetheart,” San murmurs, but the laugh in his voice is definitely audible and it has Wooyoung’s fingers immediately pulling away, clenching onto the material covering his thigh instead. “Not until I let you.”

Sturdy fingers thread through his hair, gentle only for a split second before they yank painfully again, grabbing a fistful and shoving his head back until it’s resting against the wall. Then San is sliding back in even rougher than he was earlier, more than careful when he makes sure he’s hitting the back of Wooyoung’s throat every time. Wooyoung whines, the sound high-pitched and needy even for him, and a muffled, debauched groan tumbles out of San’s mouth at the vibration, vulgar and unhindered.

Then he feels something between his legs.

Oh God.

San has positioned his foot between Wooyoung’s thighs, seemingly knowing exactly what he’s doing with the gentle press of his shin. If Wooyoung’s mouth wasn’t already filled and if he wasn’t currently gagging on dick, his breath would have hitched. Either way, the pleasure is brief and yet so, _so_ relieving, and his eyes screw shut at the sensation. And then San’s leg pulls back, and the feeling stops.

It doesn’t take an idiot to know what San wants him to do.

A hint of anger makes Wooyoung hesitate. Does San expect him to rut against his leg like a bitch in heat? Does he think Wooyoung will stoop that low to get off?

If he does, then Wooyoung’s not gonna let him have the satisfaction. The saliva pooling in his mouth the more he gags is absolutely fucking mortifying, but Wooyoung is not one to let anyone beat him in his own game.

Even if it’s San.

He remains motionless, San still fucking his mouth and using Wooyoung as he pleases, the hand fisted in his hair tugging even harder and the exquisite burn in his scalp intensifying. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Thought you wanted to come, hm?” he snarls. “Guess not.”

Wooyoung tilts his head back until his back is flat up against the wall all the way, until San’s cock slips out, the head pressed against his lips. He’s not willing to beg just yet. He won’t submit that easily. That would just be taking the fun out of this whole ordeal, and the look in San’s eyes lets him know that the man thinks the same. 

That’s why Wooyoung only smiles lazily, licking over his top lip where the head of San’s cock drags across the mess of spit and precome dripping down his chin. “Judging by how the night is going, I’d say you couldn’t make me come even if you tried.”

Usually with a gibe like that adding fuel to the fire, Wooyoung’s partners would prove him otherwise, going twice as hard as they already would have been. That’s certainly the intended reaction. But Wooyoung has known from the start that San’s different, so he wants to see just how far he can bend him until he breaks, how far he can push until San loses it. He wants to know just how long it would take before San finally gives in.

“Yeah?”

Wooyoung just hums, eyes wide and deceivingly innocent.

And then—then San just smiles in response, tongue in his cheek in thought. A low chuckle slips out, eyebrows raising in almost shock for a split second, but Wooyoug catches it instantly. The expression fades, and then he is left with the image of San staring down at him, head tilting to a side. He blinks once, twice, and the smile is gone.

Instead, it is replaced with a blank face and the words, “That’s not what you were saying earlier when you were getting off on my thigh.”

Oh my God.

 _Oh my fucking God,_ he thinks, because then San’s letting go, the death-grip on his hair loosening before he takes his hands off of Wooyoung entirely, reaching down to fist his dick. The combination of one slow, steady stroke and those narrow eyes, shining with an unspoken challenge, aimed at him has Wooyoung’s breath catching in his lungs because fuck, does he want to get his mouth on San again. San looks good like this, content in the way he moves his hips achingly slowly, fucking into the tight circle of his hand.

“Looks like you’re just gonna have to sit back and watch.”

What.

Wait, what the fuck.

Wooyoung’s frozen, eyes glued to the way San works his cock, the other hand reaching up to plant itself on the wall behind him. He’s forced still, back pressed against the surface while San stands in front of him, thumb sliding precome over the head and twisting faster while he groans, the pretty sound only making the dull throb between Wooyoung’s legs get stronger.

Just the sight makes him start dripping, the damp material of his briefs catching onto his skin, enough to make him notice the feeling but not enough to make him come. It’s outright maddening, because he had been planning to give San a hard time and act up to get what he wants, but he feels like he’s going to lose his mind just seeing the way San’s cock disappears into that large, veiny hand, forearm stiffening the faster he flicks his wrist. 

The sight of San getting off by himself might as well be a whole fucking meal, and Wooyoung’s bottom lip is going to start bleeding because he can’t stop pulling it between his teeth, fingers clenched on his lap as he watches with rapt attention. God, he must look dumb, spit still dribbling down his chin, turning his eyes up at San, breath heavy because he wants to touch San, to make him come, to _please_ him. Of all the things he expected San to do, not letting Wooyoung touch him wasn’t even on the list, something Wooyoung had never considered. 

But now here they are—Wooyoung, on his knees and too proud to beg, and San, more than happy to keep Wooyoung waiting.

It’s taking everything in him to not listen to San, his utmost concentration on maintaining eye contact with the man to stop himself from sliding his hand down his pants and grinding down against his palm to relieve the ache that’s been building for fucking ages because what the fuck, who the fuck even looks that good just jacking off? It’s unfair—it’s really fucking unfair that San looks like that, and it’s really fucking unfair that San is _still_ making him wait because the longer he looks, the more he wants San to fill him up.

The more he wants San to ruin him.

He wants San to slide inside him slowly and force him to feel every fucking inch in a torturous drag before shoving in all the way to the hilt while he pulls Wooyoung’s hair and makes him cry as he does it over and over again.

Each gasp, groan, sigh that comes from San’s mouth is like music to Wooyoung’s ears, going straight to his dick. Wooyoung can’t help his own little noises that escape him, every inhale and exhale getting stuck in his lungs.

It’s a double-edged sword. Wooyoung can either do nothing and watch San make himself come while leaving Wooyoung high and dry, or he can demolish his ego by begging for San to finally touch him. Playing this waiting game is pure punishment all on its own, and it seems like Wooyoung is fighting an uphill battle, his resolve fading with each movement of San’s hand, the way San’s head falls forward, his eyes screwing shut, hair tumbling into his eyes, and breath getting more erratic.

It's obscene the way Wooyoung’s thighs have been squeezing and rubbing against each other, aching for some sort of release, to feel San in his mouth, inside _him._ He wants it so fucking badly that he feels like he's going feral just by the visual of San gasping, rocking his hips up more eagerly by the second, fucking his cock into his hand as he flicks his wrist in a way that has Wooyoung clenching down on nothing.

God, he feels empty.

That's why the words slip out before he can really dwell on it any longer.

"Please, Sannie," he whispers desperately, hands sliding out of his lap to make their way up to San's thighs again and the muscles are tense and prominent under his touch. "Can I? Please?"

“Can you what?"

He can feel the back of his neck heat up in shame, the blush on his face probably visible in the dark just by the thought of what he wants to say. "Can I blow you?"

San hums thoughtfully, obviously mulling it over, and the word that follows feels like a punch to Wooyoung’s gut as well as a blow to his pride. "No."

"What?" Wooyoung exhales, stomach dropping. 

Fuck.

"Maybe I forgot to tell you earlier, but another thing you should know about me—" San begins, his wrist jerking again, and Wooyoung can’t help but wish it was his own hand, his own mouth, his own body doing it instead, "—is that I don't fuck ungrateful brats like you, Wooyoung.”

_Fuck._

And that has him blinking in confusion because what? His mouth drops open to object because this is…not what he’d expected at all when he first met San. Not once had he thought that San would turn the situation around on him like this, because here he is, on his knees and begging— _pleading_ —just like San wants.

He’s so sure he was being _good,_ or, well, at least, good enough, but San cuts him off before he can even say anything.

“Don’t look at me like that,” San says, gaze hard and impenetrable. His jaw is clenched, staring intently right back at Wooyoung, and the way his eyes burn holes into Wooyoung has his breath halting. “I gave you the chance to touch yourself. Your fault for not taking it.”

“Wait, seriously?” 

When they had first met at the club, locking eyes from across the dance floor, Wooyoung was convinced San could fuck him stupid and force him out of this shitty rut that he’s been in. Now, with Wooyoung looking up at him in deep confusion, he’s not sure what changed. He’s pretty sure San could still do that, but they’ve already crossed the line that Wooyoung has been so carefully tiptoeing around for months.

It might be because Gunwoo had been…painfully average, for lack of a better word, in every department, compared to this, but Wooyoung knows that he wants San to shatter him and put his pieces back together over and over.

San’s hand leaves the wall, fingers twisting in Wooyoung’s hair again before wrenching his head upward, making him look San dead in the eyes. He can’t help but shudder at their intensity, burning with a wicked fire to mirror the inferno coursing through Wooyoung’s veins. He’s transfixed, can’t look away. And then comes San’s smooth voice, lilting in delight. “You’re an ungrateful little shit, Wooyoung. Shouldn’t have touched you at all, huh?"

“Are you fucking with me?” Wooyoung asks, eyes wide in disbelief. 

Wooyoung knows San is going to fuck him good enough he won’t be able to think straight, but this is not how he envisioned the conversation going at all. Even then, his blood _sings_ at the mere thought of San ruining him like this, because far too much time has passed since he’s had somebody else’s hands on him. Wooyoung’s even astonished that he’s managed to last this long. Just the look on the man’s face and the sound of his ragged breathing feels like an almost violent game of tug-o-war, much like the games he already knew San would play with him, with his heartstrings.

Wooyoung’s only known San for a few hours but he’s already so far gone for him, he thinks.

The fact that San merely continues, paying no regard to Wooyoung, doesn’t help in the slightest. “Well, I could be fucking _you,_ but you refuse to listen.”

The line is truly ridiculous, but Wooyoung’s addled brain is too busy trying to figure out what to say in response that he misses his chance to speak at all, because San carries on in his silence.

“I don’t know…maybe I should just get myself off. Make you watch me, hm?”

Then San’s leg is back where it was before, insistent between Wooyoung’s thighs, and Wooyoung has to forcefully resist canting his hips, quashing the urge to pursue even some semblance of sweet relief. The corner of San’s mouth twitches, so he definitely knows what he’s doing and what effect he has on Wooyoung, which just makes this a hundred times worse. Instead of Wooyoung pushing San, the tables have turned and it’s San pushing Wooyoung.

And San’s enjoying it.

San presses in harder, and God, it’s so _good_ that Wooyoung’s eyes nearly roll back into his head and he involuntarily jolts forward with a short cry, making San exhale sharply in a small chuckle, triumphant.

Even if San did let Wooyoung come like this, it would in no way be as satisfying as having San rearrange his guts.

“San,” Wooyoung pants, voice breaking. “San, _Sannie,_ c’mon—”

“What, can’t even answer me? God, you’re useless,” San taunts. “What do you think, Youngie? Wanna watch me come on my own?”

The fact that Wooyoung can’t even speak, barely managing to shake his head with the words he can’t say stuck on the tip of his tongue, only serves to convince him that he’s going to go fucking mental from the utterly unbearable humiliation. God, he’s so embarrassed. He’s never been one to shy away from power dynamics in the bedroom, but never in his life has he ever had to beg like this to get what he wants. Never in his life has he ever been pushed to his very limit with so few words. “No, please—”

“Too fuckin’ bad,” San scoffs, enunciating every word. The smile on his face has vanished, but he’s still looking at Wooyoung like that and Wooyoung _wants_ —it’s only been a couple hours since they’ve met but Wooyoung wants it so badly he feels like he’s been thrown headfirst out of an airplane with no parachute. The words that follow are even worse. “Should’ve thought harder about running your mouth before you pissed me off.”

If he were less of a brat, then he wouldn’t have been able to contain the pathetic sob that nearly slips out of his mouth. He’s on his fucking knees for a man that he’s literally just met, simultaneously on the verge of making a mess of his pants and throwing a temper tantrum because he’s so fucking horny he feels like he’s going to die. It’s been way too fucking long, and the fact that San’s bringing him to this point only to deny him the satisfaction really pisses him off.

The only reason he can’t argue is because the need to get dicked outweighs his frustration.

Hell, San hasn’t even touched him yet. At least not properly, and Wooyoung’s stomach sinks at that.

The fact that San’s got his leg between his own doesn’t help either, and he’s ashamed at the feeling of frustrated tears stinging his eyes. That’s probably why his mouth opens on its own, because the fight in him is slowly crumbling. He croaks out, “No, c’mon, I’ll—I’ll be good, San. Please. _Please.”_

San only makes a noncommittal noise. “We’ll see about that.”

The hold on his hair loosens, and then San’s hand leaves to slide along his cheek before clutching his jaw painfully. It only takes one rough shove to have his head tilted up, San’s fingers digging into the bone. It hurts and Wooyoung’s humiliated to find that it only makes him harder, only has the damp material catching onto his cock. Shit, he’s so fucking turned on that it’s crazy. He can’t even stop the whimper that tumbles out of his mouth when he feels San’s grip tighten again, his bleary eyes searching San’s for something, anything—anything to let him know that San will have mercy on him.

Maybe it’s a trick of the dim light, but something in the man’s face softens for a moment. Wooyoung almost misses it, and it’s almost as if Wooyoung never even saw it because it’s back to the raised eyebrows, that unholy smirk aimed right at him. And then San’s saying lowly, “Get up.”

Wooyoung obeys without question but he can barely stand, only noticing that his knees have gone numb from being pressed into the floor for so long because he’s been so focused on the man in front of him. San has to help him up as his legs quake like a fawn’s, leaning heavily against San, on San, and the other can probably feel the heat radiating off of him in waves, skin feverish with a light sheen of sweat.

San connects their lips again, this time surprisingly chaste—just a mere soft touch of their mouths that contrasts with his harsh words, much like the biting cold of metal that drags along his mouth.

He shivers when San groans into the kiss, no doubt tasting himself on Wooyoung's tongue as it gets deeper. It might be because he has a penchant for getting into trouble, but Wooyoung finds that he doesn't actually mind being on the receiving end like this, to have San guide him just how he craves, which is why he decides to let the man do whatever he wants.

A shaky breath leaves his lips when he feels those hands wrap around his waist again, calloused but soft fingers fitting to his skin almost like they’re made to be there. San pulls him close, tugging hard enough that their bodies are flush against each other with the taller man supporting Wooyoung's weight entirely again while Wooyoung goes to loop his arms around San's neck. He makes a sound in the back of his throat—somewhere between a sigh and a moan, hissing as San presses their hips together.

San takes a step back, pulling Wooyoung with him, pushing him backwards, pulling him forwards, guiding him to what Wooyoung assumes is the bedroom.

They get past the doorway, and suddenly San is pushing Wooyoung across the room and down onto the bed so roughly that Wooyoung is pretty sure he just got whiplash. San climbs on top of him, prying his legs apart so he can slide between them, attacking Wooyoung’s lips, Wooyoung’s neck again with a new ferocity.

“Off,” San commands against his mouth, hands at the hem of Wooyoung’s shirt. They separate only long enough for him to tug his top off while San straightens up, sitting back on his haunches to do the same, exposing—

Holy shit.

 _Holy shit,_ Wooyoung thinks for the millionth time, _holy fucking shit,_ eyes stuck on the swirls of black, waves and edges and curves twisting across the wide expanse of ivory, a contrast so stark he can barely think straight. There's no other colour, but it doesn't even matter because his eyes are greedily taking in the [ two dragons](https://www.instagram.com/p/CH2aYNyl7So/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) covering San's chest, traditional in the way the dark ink gently curves against his skin, starting in the middle and dragging out to the ends of his shoulders, the tails twining on the tops of his biceps.

Fuck.

 _Fuck,_ he looks good.

Like this, Wooyoung can see San’s chest in its entirety—those tattoos that were peeking out earlier are finally in the open and Wooyoung wants to taste them, run his fingertips along the edges. He can see the way San _looks,_ muscles rippling under the light, and if Wooyoung’s throat goes as dry as the Sahara by the sight, then no one has to know. The light sheen of sweat, radiant, defined planes of his stomach, the fine cut lines of hard work and pure endurance and that fucking torso—

Yeah. He’s definitely committing this to memory.

He's reminded of _ukiyo._ Floating, fleeting. Transient. Something he can only admire from afar, something he can only wish to even gaze upon.

A dream, maybe.

He's compelled to trace his tongue all over the patterns, find his way down south like the markings are some sort of maze and he’s lost in the enigmatic work of art that is San, and he wants to feel the slight raise of skin on his tongue.

He doesn’t know why he suddenly remembers, but a memory of him and Yeosang hunched over a table in their university’s library resurfaces. Yeosang had talked his ear off, something about the yakuza, and since Yeosang’s a weeb, Wooyoung barely batted an eye once Yeosang got to the topic of dragon tattoos and what they mean in Japan.

_Balance, freedom, good luck._

Wooyoung’s not too sure about the first two but good luck is definitely on the table if _this_ is who he’s landed tonight.

San looks like a fucking wet dream, like all of Wooyoung’s fantasies wrapped up into one, and Wooyoung can't help the shiver that ripples down his spine when his eyes flit up to look at the wicked grin that he wants to come all over, unable to stop himself from glancing at the gleaming piercing only to drop to the ink scattered across a wide chest—dark, powerful, striking. God, Wooyoung wants to get his mouth on San so badly.

He's pretty sure he's malfunctioning because he doesn't even know where to start, what to drool over, way too focused on actually looking at San, admiring him, because shit, he knew the guy was jacked in the best fucking way when Wooyoung was feeling him up but _this?_ Completely unexpected.

(He can faintly hear Jongho's teasing voice in his head, _I had no idea your type was Mr. Incredible, hyung._

 _Wow,_ he must be going crazy if this is what’s going through this head. No wonder Yeosang declared this a national emergency once he saw just how out of it Wooyoung was earlier—unhinged, batshit insane, absolutely bonkers, and it's obvious that's an understatement because he's still staring at San in silence.)

San’s muscular in all the right places, Spartan-like and toned to perfection as if he was chiseled from marble. Wooyoung's not even religious, but he makes sure to thank every possible god out there because they certainly took their time on this one.

They really did play favorites, huh.

Wooyoung doesn't even care that it's dark in San's room, the lights still off, because the faint glow shining in from the window is enough for him to really take in the view. If they weren’t currently on San’s bed, Wooyoung’s pretty sure he would have dropped to his knees once again to have those hands in his hair while he savors the way those dragons look coiled over pale skin.

Immaculate. Flawless.

(And then Yeosang’s voice follows, _talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before_ —oh my God.

Oh my fucking God. Shut _up,_ Yeosang.)

If Wooyoung had a kryptonite, it would be a man like this. San’s dangerous because while he’s rough, he’s also gentle and attentive. He’s addictive and Wooyoung’s already fiending, ready to worship him and take hit after hit until he can’t take any more. San might as well be sugar and spice and everything nice and _fuck,_ Wooyoung's always had a thing for guys like this, which is why he tends to avoid them. Commitment issues and all.

But he's…surprised to come to the realization all on his own that for some reason, he isn't scared this time.

He’s not afraid at all.

All Wooyoung knows right now is that he wants this man between his legs, fucking him so hard he can’t even remember his own name. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll have to come back for seconds. But that’s a whole other can of worms he’s not gonna open tonight.

"You just gonna keep staring or are you gonna let me fuck you already?"

Jesus Christ. 

Wooyoung barely manages to pick his jaw up from off the floor, and he hopes that the look he’s aiming at San is a deadpan expression while really, he’s losing his mind trying not to think about the fact that the blunt inquiry has him opening up a million new mental tabs—all ranging from engagement rings to wedding setups to honeymoon destinations. He doesn’t want to admit that Yeosang’s right—the way to Wooyoung’s heart really _is_ through his dick. The thought is the only reason why Wooyoung glares at San, nose wrinkled in his attempt at a painfully unimpressed face. “God, you’re annoying.”

“And yet here we are,” San murmurs. He inches forward, and the look on his face has Wooyoung’s lips trembling when he leans in, caging Wooyoung between his arms before his head drops, nosing along his collarbones. “You look so pretty like this, Youngie.”

San reaches over him, and he’s way too distracted by the praise and with the way San looks over him to look at what the man is doing, but he can distantly hear the sound of a drawer opening— _ah,_ San must be getting the lube. Either way, he’s not going to think about that because he’s more than content to think about this, enraptured by the vibrations of San’s words like bolts of lightning in every place they meet Wooyoung’s skin as he leaves butterfly kisses on Wooyoung’s chest, tongue ghosting over Wooyoung’s nipple, making his breath hitch.

He chooses to roll his eyes, praying to every deity out there that San can’t hear the way his voice shakes when he replies, “You better fucking make it good.”

One flick of the gaze has San’s eyes locking with Wooyoung’s from where he’s got his mouth blazing a trail down Wooyoung’s stomach, that horribly familiar Chesire half-smile making every muscle in Wooyoung’s body tense in anticipation. Even the feeling of that mouth dragging down his torso, that fucking lip ring pressing warm kisses on his skin has his toes curling, breath going heavy. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” San starts, voice in a taunting drawl, his nimble fingers quickly unfastening Wooyoung’s pants before he’s sliding them down Wooyoung’s legs, gaze not breaking even once while he tosses the material somewhere on the floor. 

And this…this is what Wooyoung had wanted. But even then, he’s a little bit stunned to find that he’s embarrassed. He’s never felt vulnerable in bed despite the kind of risqué play he’s into, but San’s eyes rake down his body in a way that makes him feel too naked, too visible. The sheer mischief in his eyes only make Wooyoung squeeze his thighs together, apple red staining his cheeks because he still can’t fucking look away from the man between his legs. “I plan to.”

The man who looks like he’s going to eat him alive.

Shit.

Shit, he thinks, because San lowers his head slowly, still watching Wooyoung while he mouths along the jut of his hip bone, that goddamned lip ring dragging along his skin, reaching down and deliberately avoiding his cock—dripping, _leaking_ —and there’s a moan trapped in Wooyoung’s throat once he feels those lips slide along his thighs. They’re trembling, quivering with the scorching heat from San’s palms holding them down, fire dancing along his skin because San’s leaving gentle kisses all over him. 

Wooyoung’s eyes slip shut, head falling back onto San’s pillow, hair fanning out of under him, when he feels San’s teeth graze his skin.

The sound of the pop of a bottle cap, and the slick sounds of San’s fingers rubbing together almost ring in his ears, and the only reason he can still keep his legs spread is because the faint buzzing takes away the edge, just a little bit. His cock twitches against his stomach, and he’s humiliated at just how much he’s dripping. He can feel the precome pooling, making even more of a mess at the lack of attention. He wants to touch himself so fucking badly but he has a feeling that if he does anything that San doesn’t like, he’ll regret it.

He only lets out an impatient groan, lifting his head to glare at San. “Fucking get on with it already.”

“Why the rush?” San asks coyly, and then Wooyoung feels it. 

A slick finger circling his rim. 

He can’t help the startled moan that climbs out of his throat when he feels San’s fingertip prod at his hole, entire body jerking when he feels San’s mouth on his thigh, gentle before it delivers a swift bite to the tender skin. His legs immediately go to close but San’s hand squeezes down painfully, keeping them wide open, sucking a line of red and purple into the expanse of peach. San’s eyes flick back up, the corner of his lip hooking up when he reaches Wooyoung’s hip and moves to the other side.

In seconds, he feels the familiar prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes again. He loathes—although loathe is a bit of an overstatement—that just the slight pressure of a finger against his hole turns him into this mess. He hates that San’s only been playing with him, since they met up till this very moment, and he hates that he likes that the man has Wooyoung spread open and helpless for him to do whatever he wants. Another press of San’s finger and Wooyoung’s hips buck again, searching for relief, and he can’t help but squirm impatiently.

And then San’s finger pushes, sliding inside slowly.

Wooyoung’s hips jerk, a surprised moan rising an octave into a filthy whine, when he feels how his body automatically relaxes, giving way to San’s finger, opening up greedily. 

Fuck. After denying himself the pleasure of feeling someone else on him, Wooyoung feels like he could come just from this. Just from one mere finger inside him. He’s grateful he’s lying on his back because the look on San’s face once he feels Wooyoung clenching down at the achingly slow pace, at being forced to feel millimeter after millimeter, is everything to him. San’s eyes stay connected to where his finger has pushed in all the way, and Wooyoung can’t stop his thighs from shaking, body spasming when he feels the finger twist once he adjusts.

“Hold the fuck still,” San says gruffly, voice gravelly from the strain. 

His rough palm comes down, _hard,_ on Wooyoung’s thigh, the sound of skin meeting skin loud enough that it echoes through the room, and Wooyoung flushes when another moan threatens to leave his mouth. The sting soothes him, and maybe it's because he’s a bit of a masochist, but either way he’s not complaining because San’s free hand digs into the red mark that he’s just left behind. Wooyoung relishes the consequent burn, but it takes everything in him to stop squirming because San’s finger crooks, just barely missing his prostate.

Shit, he’s embarrassed to admit to himself that even this makes him feel full already because it’s been too fucking long.

“Fuck—will you just—” Wooyoung starts, a high whine cutting off his words when he feels San’s teeth graze against the spot where his thigh meets his hip, San intentionally avoiding all of the most sensitive places on Wooyoung’s body that would send him over the edge. “I swear to God, I’ll do it myself if you don’t fucking— _ah!_ ”

His reply is cut off by San’s hand reaching up to pinch his nipple, twisting the bud painfully. He nearly shouts—it hurts, it really fucking hurts, and pain spreads across his chest but his eyes shut because it feels so fucking good at the same time. It’s a miracle he manages to stop the sound, stifling it so that only a muffled whimper slips out instead, fingers twisting in the sheets while his body thrashes at the feeling of San tugging at it again. San’s looking at him with that fucking expression, sneering because he knows exactly what he’s doing to Wooyoung. God, he’s such an asshole and Wooyoung hates that it only has him riled up even more.

“You were saying?” San’s voice follows, mocking, eyebrows raised, and even though he’s goading and it makes Wooyoung painfully self-conscious, Wooyoung can’t help but shake even harder, his previous jab forgotten.

He just swallows thickly, blood rushing to his ears and—and _yeah,_ the faint buzzing in his ears is almost unbearable now that he’s gone dizzy with it. He’s not sure if he can think about anything but the fact that he needs San to add another finger, that he _needs_ San to ruin him for anyone else, for San to keep him coming back. So Wooyoung lies there, frozen like a deer in headlights, and his throat bobs when he tries to ease the dryness in his mouth.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” San says, lips curving into a gentle smile. It’s absurd, the fact that he can look as angelic as he does in that moment, because he leans back down to place another kiss on Wooyoung’s hip bone, dangerously close to his cock, more than happy to ignore the mess Wooyoung’s making.

 _Motherfucker,_ he thinks furiously, _absolute motherfucker._

“Fuck you,” Wooyoung grits out. He can’t even think of something witty. He’s had enough of the teasing. Maybe he should just shove San down and take back the control he’d given up, and make San beg even more than he had. The muscles in his stomach tighten as he attempts to sit up because he’s had enough of this shit, but San shoves him back down again, a deathly grip on his body while he holds Wooyoung in place like this. He opens his mouth to complain, but a moan falls out when he feels San slide a second finger inside slowly.

His eyes roll back, mouth falling open and back arching off the bed at the stretch, his retaliation forgotten because he’s so _full._

The memory of San’s hands on his waist, fingers stroking his skin, hasn’t left his mind at all. He remembers all too well just how they look, because he took his time staring at them and admiring them all night. Not too long, but thick. San’s hands are wide, fingers solid enough that maybe one of his could be the same as one and a half of Wooyoung’s, which are slender and long. One finger was good, but the addition of the second lets him really feel the way his hole opens up for the digits sliding in and out of him, filling him up nicely.

Wooyoung can’t stop the moan that bursts out of him when he thinks about how San’s cock would feel inside him if just his hands felt this good.

“We’ll get there,” San chuckles lowly, and the smirk is evident even in his voice. He flushes at the way the man laughs into his inner thigh, and God, he can’t even respond, the air punched out of his lungs from how fucking good it is, from how good it feels to have San finally filling him up how he wants. His toes curl, ankles flexing when feels San’s fingers curve inside, twisting to graze his prostate, and his breath stutters around a groan at the feeling as black and white spots dance across his eyelids, hole clenching. 

Wooyoung can’t even formulate words, much less even think. His head is empty, no thoughts—the only thing he can focus on is the feeling of those impossibly thick fingers stretching him out, scissoring where they pull out only to push right back into his prostate. 

He can only moan in response, a wretched and helpless sound as San works his fingers in and out of Wooyoung. His legs are somehow splayed even further apart, hands not able to decide if they want to twist in San’s covers or cover his eyes or scratch at the headboard or—or pull at San’s hair.

Yeah, he thinks dimly, he can do that.

His hands reach down and sweep the strands falling across San’s face before sinking into the locks, making San look up in confusion. The man is in the middle of placing another kiss onto Wooyoung’s thigh when he _pulls,_ a breathy, triumphant laugh leaving his lips when San groans into his skin loudly, vibrations leaving goosebumps in their wake.

So San enjoys that, too.

San only responds with another smack on his thigh and a third finger that circles his rim once more before pushing in achingly slowly.

Oh. 

_Oh God,_ he thinks. He’s full—he’s stretched out, ready to burst, and just the feeling of San’s fingers inside him like this, resting, has the churning in his gut increasing a thousandfold. Shit, he might come like this. San doesn’t even have to do anything but make sure he’s filled to the brim and with just one single flick of the tongue against the head of his cock, he’s sure he’ll fall apart. The wave is rising up to a peak, he knows, almost cresting just by the way his chest is heaving when San pulls his fingers out only to shove them back in. 

Wooyoung cries out, fingers twisting in San’s hair, legs somehow spreading even more than he’d planned. It’s all he can do to keep himself in check, yanking at San’s hair so he doesn’t do anything he’s going to regret. He can feel it down to his very bones, the way his body thrums in oversensitivity along with the endless rush of arousal that makes him feel like he’s going to suffocate. San doesn’t have to be slow about it for Wooyoung to feel every single shift of his fingers inside, because he’s gone six months with nobody else to do it for him.

He feels it brewing in the pit of his stomach, intense and overwhelming.

It’s sharp, and he’s so close that he goes quiet, unable to do anything but stare back at San when he feels the man curl his fingers against Wooyoung’s prostate purposely, dragging them slowly so Wooyoung feels everything, paralyzed with pleasure. He’s looking at San with that stupid fucked-out expression, his lips parted to drag in ragged gulps of air, and he knows that there’s a little furrow between his eyebrows. He wills his eyes not to roll back, to maintain eye contact with San, hypnotized by his gaze. Wooyoung inhales sharply, holding his breath at the feeling of San spreading his fingers, preparing himself for the high that’s about to hit him in seconds before—

Before San pulls his fingers out, shifting back as he takes his mouth off of Wooyoung as well.

“No,” Wooyoung all but wails, the word slurred and garbled, tongue heavy in his mouth. He blinks, mind too foggy to concentrate with the loss of his orgasm, body trembling as he chases after San’s touch, hips jerking whenever he feels San’s mouth near his skin. It’s a near guttural sound, the plea that follows, the words choked off and caught in Wooyoung’s throat. “San—please, Sannie, I want— _San_ —”

Wooyoung doesn’t even really know what he wants. All he knows for sure is that he needs San to fuck him _now._

“What do you want, baby?” San chuckles, breath puffing on the head of Wooyoung’s cock, hand smoothing over his stomach, thumb drawing lazy circles over his navel, fingers tracing invisible patterns that have him shaking, cheeks wet with tears of frustration. He’s never been this easily affected before, but even the feeling of San’s fingertips glancing over his skin makes all of his rationality fly out the window. “Use your words.”

Wooyoung doesn’t want to give in so easily, but he’s fresh out of smart things to retort with, so he can only muster a desperate “Please fuck me. Sannie, _please.”_

San takes his time as he wipes the excess lube on his fingers off on the sheets, making his way up to Wooyoung’s mouth again, gazing almost affectionately down at Wooyoung. “How do you want it?”

Wooyoung’s silent, the only sound in the room the thunder of his pounding heartbeat and their shared breaths as he takes a moment to appreciate San’s striking features: the sharpness of his jawline, the glint of his lip ring, the cut of his high cheekbones. And his eyes focused entirely on Wooyoung. He’s a god among men, if Wooyoung’s ever seen one. He runs his hands up San’s arms and down his back, fingers painstakingly tracing the lines of his twin dragons as he bides his time—the muscles warm and jumping under the pads of his fingers. Some part of Wooyoung thinks that San’s had enough fun with him, has given him enough of a hard time. 

He wants to push back, get under San’s skin for a change.

“Against the wall,” Wooyoung answers, clearing his throat, hoping that there’s enough of a challenge in his voice that San will agree. He wants San to put those arms, those muscles, that strength to good use.

“Shit,” San replies after a second, his eyes going wide with surprise, blinking as if he can’t believe Wooyoung just said that. “You sure?”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t goddamn sure. Now fuck me against the wall.”

“Fuck.” San closes his eyes, shaking his head a little bit in disbelief. “Fuck, alright. You can’t just say things like that, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung giggles. 

He fucking _giggles._

God, he must really be losing it. The corners of San’s mouth lift up too before he presses a gentle kiss to Wooyoung’s lips, Wooyoung’s eyes closing, but Wooyoung doesn’t let him pull away, keeping San’s head where it is as his fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of San’s neck and opening his mouth, teasing San’s ring with his tongue.

The kiss gets deeper, darker as San groans when Wooyoung’s teeth tug at his ring, the man reciprocating with his own playful bite to Wooyoung’s lips. His legs squeeze together on either side of San’s ribs, San shifting to slot their bodies together and then he’s reminded that—

That he’s still empty.

He’s got half a mind to beg San to just fuck him right then and there, to just slide inside Wooyoung and fuck him well like Wooyoung’s been craving for the better part of a year (or more like his entire life), but then—

Then the other man pulls away from him, ignoring Wooyoung’s confused little whimper that follows at the loss of contact. When his eyes flutter open to take a look, heat blossoms underneath his skin when he sees the way San goes to sit at the edge of the bed, legs spread with one hand tapping his thigh and the other stroking himself again, lubing himself up. Then comes San’s voice, hoarse, strained because of how turned on he is, eyes never once straying from Wooyoung’s smaller frame just a foot away from him.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

Wooyoung’s on his knees and crawling towards San in an instant to straddle him, hands going to hold onto San’s shoulders. It doesn’t take any more than that for San to grab Wooyoung’s waist with one hand and guide his cock with the other, easing Wooyoung down in one fluid motion, slow and steady.

It’s slow, which is most definitely a good thing considering Wooyoung hasn’t gotten fucked in over six months, but just the feeling of San, thicker than his fingers, sliding inside him, filling him up, has his head dropping onto San’s shoulder with a whine. God, it’s been so fucking long since someone touched him that he feels so fucking full like this, San’s cock hitting all the right places inside him. He hasn’t even gotten fucked yet and he knows he has to be careful, but he’s already seconds from begging San to fuck him properly—rough, just how he likes it.

“Fuck,” San groans into his neck. _“Fuck,_ baby, you’re so tight.”

Wooyoung can’t even move, San’s hands keeping him still, vice-like grip on his hip bones so that he’s forced to feel the way he opens up, the way his body slowly gives in to every single inch. He can barely even keep his eyes open, but below him is San, head tilted up, stare half-lidded but still focused and deadly, taking in the way Wooyoung’s face looks when he’s finally filled. Just the way that San’s looking at him has his orgasm creeping up on him from out of nowhere as his heart rate skyrockets.

“Hold on,” San says gruffly once he bottoms out, Wooyoung’s ass meeting San’s thighs. 

If it weren’t for the way San’s legs are noticeably shaking underneath him, Wooyoung might have not even realised that San is equally—if not more—affected by this. The words barely even register, and it’s probably because he’s too out of it to understand that San literally meant what he said, because a startled noise slips out when San cups Wooyoung’s ass, sinking his fingers into the soft flesh and digging his thumbs into Wooyoung’s hips before heaving him up and _standing._

Wooyoung swallows a scream when his legs automatically wind themselves around San’s hips, because if the man wasn’t deep already, now he’s even more so as gravity does its job and Wooyoung sinks down even lower, impaled on San’s cock. Everything below his hips is numb but _alive_ at the same time as he squeezes his thighs around San’s waist. He can only shake like a leaf, panting into San’s mouth and clinging on for dear life, and the low rumbling groan that rattles in San’s chest has a high-pitched keen tumbling out of Wooyoung. God, he feels like he’s going to come already and he’s only just gotten filled up.

Fuck, it’s good.

Maybe it’s courtesy of his nonexistent sex life, but Wooyoung can’t remember ever being this full. 

His own fingers and his previous partners could never come close to something like this. It feels like San’s cock is splitting him down the middle, feeding the bonfire in his belly that’s already threatening to make Wooyoung’s whole body burst into flames. Each step San takes feels like it’s jostling Wooyoung’s guts, and in a way, it literally is, and he can’t help the whimper that escapes out of him when he feels his cock pressing against San’s abdomen, every movement sending shivers down his spine.

His eyes go wide in awe. He’d be a proper dumbass not to assume San’s strong as fuck, but for him to lift Wooyoung like he’s nothing and keep him like that for more than a minute? That’s fucking hot.

Wooyoung can already hear wedding bells in the distance.

“Shit,” he gasps, hands squeezing San’s arms, the muscles of his arm tense and flexing under Wooyoung’s touch and Jesus Christ, what would Wooyoung _not_ give to marry this man? “What, you fight or something?”

San chuckles, eyes turning into crescents in amusement and Wooyoung’s heart does a stupid skip. “You could say that.”

He almost wants to consider what that could possibly mean, but there’s no time to do that because then he’s feeling something cold against his back. 

Oh, he dimly realises, San’s going to fuck him against the wall. 

_He’s really going to fuck me against the wall._

Wooyoung doesn’t even know himself if he was joking earlier, and he might not have been entirely serious. It’s one thing for San to lift him up as easily as he did, but it’s another thing entirely to actually get fucked against the wall. With one push, San’s back to being serious, shoving him into the wall, hands sliding down to lift him up properly by the thighs. This way, Wooyoung can only imagine how he looks: head tilted back with his neck on display, arms wrapped around San’s neck while he’s got his legs hanging limply like he’s some type of—

God, he can’t even finish the thought.

It’s embarrassing to think of what they look like, Wooyoung totally at San’s mercy, but also because San is only still for a second before he’s shifting his hips, pulling back until just the head rests inside, letting Wooyoung stare at him in confusion. The look on his face must be ridiculous, because he’s _needy_ and he can feel the way the head of San’s cock catches onto his rim. San only lets out a breathy laugh before his hips snap forward, sliding all the way back inside in one go.

The movement forces a pornographic moan out of Wooyoung’s throat, and if he’s pretty sure if it were possible, his thighs would have crushed San’s waist, but they can’t. He can’t even move because San’s arms are keeping his legs still, and the one thrust was hard enough that Wooyoung’s entire upper body rocks into the wall. Wooyoung doesn’t know what to do with his hands, torn between clutching onto San’s shoulders and biceps, nails digging in for stability even though San’s holding him immobile.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” San breathes against his throat, and his eyes roll back when he feels the biting cold of the piercing against the warmth of his skin. Then there’s San’s tongue peeking out to taste the sweat that’s gathered in the dip of Wooyoung’s collarbone, sucking another mark among the others into his honey skin.

Wooyoung’s body count is high enough that he really shouldn’t be this affected by one man, he thinks. And yet, just watching the sharpness of San’s eyes in the darkness, his jaw clenching in concentration, has Wooyoung faltering and he can’t even find it in himself to care that he’s begging. The words don’t even feel like his. “Sannie, please—wait, fuck, harder, _harder—”_

San only laughs again before his arms bend Wooyoung’s legs back even further, pinning his knees to the wall. Wooyoung silently thanks the universe that he’s retained at least a shred of his flexibility from years of dance, but San gives him no time to properly think about the fact that he’s nearly bent in half because then he’s railing Wooyoung just like he asked him to, not paying any attention to how Wooyoung’s head is lolling wildly, hitting the wall with every thrust.

He’s a fucking mess, can’t even make proper sounds much less articulate words with how hard San is going, and if he wasn’t getting fucked stupid like this, he might spend more than a few seconds mulling over the pain that blooms across his neck when San’s teeth sink in again. Shit, he’s almost like a doll. He’s almost like a doll, a fucktoy just for San, made only to get fucked like this, and even the mere notion has his vision going fuzzy at the edges, a sign that he’s going to be coming in minutes if San keeps this up.

It’s downright filthy, the strangled groan that echoes in the room when he feels San sliding even deeper, and _oh,_ it’s as if San’s cock has a special, permanent place carved into Wooyoung and—and what the fuck, he thinks, what the actual fuck, because he’s never been one for possessive partners but something about San makes him curious, makes him want to see just how far San will take it with him until Wooyoung breaks.

Until San’s telling him quietly, _I own you._

_You’re mine._

The words are painted on every one of San’s actions, underlying every word, as he bends Wooyoung to his will alongside bending him in half against the wall. Wooyoung belongs to San in this moment. And maybe, just maybe, even in every moment that follows.

Wooyoung could take his time and think properly about why he despises the idea of it—hates the fact that he likes whatever San is doing to him both physically and mentally, hates that he kind of wants to see what it would be like if San fucks him like this every night, hates that he wants to see if San would touch him like this or be gentle in the mornings—but he won't.

He won’t, because outside of this room, they don’t belong to each other. They’re merely strangers who met on a dance floor because Wooyoung needed to get laid and San? Well, Wooyoung doesn’t know what San’s deal is, but he doesn’t need to worry about it right now.

He doesn’t need to worry about it at all, because San is shoving him into the wall again, pounding into him hard enough that his eyes are rolling back, mouth barely managing the whines that tumble out since he's got no strength in his jaw to even talk. His nails are sinking into San's back deeply enough that San hisses, a quiet sigh pressed into his neck, and he just knows there'll be red indents—Wooyoung’s own marks on San—left by the end of it.

Not that he cares or anything (he does), because San lifts his head, eyes twinkling with glee, to glance at Wooyoung, who’s all teary-eyed with flushed cheeks and parted lips, looking like a mess. And then San's murmuring, whisper like a carnal angel, "You’re so fucking pretty, Youngie."

It's undeniably incongruent to what they’re doing—the mellifluous timbre of San's voice, that fucking pet name, and how hard he’s fucking Wooyoung into the wall make for a combination so _perfect_ it has Wooyoung biting his tongue to stop himself from letting out a moan loud enough for San's neighbours to hear.

Wooyoung’s cock is still trapped between them, rubbing against San’s abs, pressed against the dips and leaving a mess, precome smearing along the expanse of his milky pale skin. It doesn’t even matter if San’s not touching him or finishing him off with steady strokes in time with his own, because San shifts just enough for his cock to hit Wooyoung’s prostate, making electricity course through his entire body like a live wire, eliciting a cry verging on a scream from Wooyoung at the feeling.

God, he’s close. He’s been tempted enough, from the second San got his mouth on him in the club to the grinding to this, to Wooyoung getting fucked so hard his vision’s gone all blurry, black vignette creeping up on the edges. He’s so close it hurts, and he needs to come so badly that the only thing stopping him from doing just that is knowing that San won’t let him. Not unless he cries, and certainly not unless he begs.

“‘m gonna come,” Wooyoung babbles, high and loud, chanting what might as well be fucked-out nonsense because his brain-to-mouth filter is virtually nonexistent now and he only has one thing on his mind. He’s not sure if what he’s saying even makes sense, if San can even understand the words coming out of his mouth because his vocabulary only consists of choked-off groans and skeletons of unintelligible words and ramblings of _pleasepleaseplease._ “Sannie, ‘m gonna come—fuck— _San, fuck—”_

And then San pulls out, leaving Wooyoung teetering on the edge of his approaching orgasm and almost in tears.

 _“No,”_ Wooyoung whimpers, writhing in San’s hold, but he can’t go anywhere because San’s still holding him, his hands clutching the backs of Wooyoung’s thighs. “No, fuck—don’t stop, Sannie, please, _I need it—”_

San rests his forehead on Wooyoung’s, pressing a not-so-apologetic kiss to the corner of Wooyoung’s open mouth. He’s smiling again, and Wooyoung can’t even stop himself from shuddering at the sight of that goddamned smirk gracing those pink lips, and the amusement in the words that follow is audible. “Aw, you didn’t think I was gonna let you come that easily, did you?”

“Please,” he whines, and the sound gets caught in his throat, high and clear and needy enough that San smiles against his cheek again. “Please, please, I—I really want it, Sannie, c’mon—”

San’s quiet for a moment, considering. He only stares at Wooyoung intently as they breathe the same air. That split second feels like years, elongated by the painful ache of feeling empty along with the bruises littering his hips that don’t feel like they’re enough.

Hell, he’s pretty sure nothing would be enough when it comes to San. He’s never been this greedy in his life, and it’s probably not even because he hasn’t gotten laid in forever, he thinks. It’s San—it’s definitely San, with that arch stare and that wicked grin playing on that fucking mouth. Wooyoung can’t even complain when San slowly lowers him back to the ground, making sure his legs stay steady before he lets go entirely, hands sliding up to his waist just in time before his legs give in.

His knees buckle, and it's a miracle San’s got quick reflexes, because those hands are pinning him to the wall again, propping him up against the surface to make sure he’s steady on his feet. San’s fingers brush against his hip, dancing over the marks. It’s an action that leaves Wooyoung dazed, because it’s almost as if San wasn’t wrecking him literally a minute ago.

Then comes that voice, low and husky— _perfect._ “Turn around, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t want to let go of San because he’s pretty sure he’s going to collapse like a house of cards if he doesn’t have San holding him up like this, but just the tone of his voice and the look on his face has Wooyoung fumbling to turn around, balancing himself on the wall with his hands while San pulls him back by the hips. This way, San’s got him bent forward, and the low whistle that comes from behind him has him flushing in shame because he knows San can see the obscene arch of his back, the way Wooyoung can’t help but push back into San’s hands even more than his body lets him. 

And then he’s spreading Wooyoung wide open and sliding back inside in one go.

“Oh,” Wooyoung breathes out, and San lets out a low groan before rolling his hips upward, the grip on Wooyoung’s waist tightening before he presses in hard, forcing Wooyoung up on his toes, fingers scrambling to find purchase on the wall. “Fuck. _Fuck,_ Sannie, c’mon—”

His eyes screw shut when he feels San lean forward to laugh against the back of his neck. He doesn’t doubt that San can feel the way Wooyoung’s hole is clenching down on his dick the harder the man rolls his hips, even worse that San can see just how reactive Wooyoung is even to the littlest of things that he does. 

Wooyoung barely manages to stop himself from biting his tongue in surprise when one of San’s hands slides up to fist his hair, shoving him into the wall and keeping him still by the head, cheek smushed against the wall. The movement has his ass pushing back, shoulders dipping into the curve of his hips, a view that San is clearly enjoying. Wooyoung doesn’t blame him—he knows he looks good like this, the pretty muscles of his shoulders narrowing into a slim waist.

Then the man pulls out, not giving Wooyoung even a second to breathe before shoving back in, leaving Wooyoung’s fingers clawing at the wall, desperate for some type of balance because he’s pretty fucking sure San’s going to kill him at this rate.

Huh, death by dick.

How fitting for him.

It’s disgusting, the way he can hear how he sounds when he’s getting fucked like this—his staccato moans accompanied by the slaps of skin and wet sounds of San fucking in and out of him, all messy and rough and just…heaven. Nothing can beat this—nothing can beat the way San feels, the way Wooyoung opens up for San, the way those hands fit perfectly on his body, one on his waist with the other shoving his head into the wall. 

Nothing can beat the way San’s holding him completely still with what seems like minimal effort. He’s helpless and at San’s mercy like this, forced to keep himself in place for San to ruin him.

“Sannie,” he gasps, unable to think about anything by the fact that he can feel the drool slipping down his chin, can feel the way San’s got him spread open on his cock, and yeah, he wants San to know it too. But he doesn’t have to worry about that, because the hand on his waist creeps up, teasing a nipple before pinching, tugging enough there’s another loud moan that rattles his lungs. “S’good—so good—please, harder—want it harder—”

Shit, he’s close already.

San groans again, and Wooyoung’s surprised that he’s coherent enough to actually hear it this time because fuck, he’s so out of it. Everything is muted yet magnified, like he’s underwater but every nerve is on fire. The only response he can manage in that moment is the slight spread of his legs and a deeper bend in his back, and there’s a low curse of _fucking hell, Wooyoung_ before San leans close enough his chest is pressed against Wooyoung’s back. He’s almost there, orgasm just barely out of reach.

“Gonna come?” San asks, voice winded, hoarse as he presses his lips against Wooyoung’s neck again, biting down. 

“Please,” Wooyoung cries. The sound is loud, high and broken as his voice cracks and he’s pretty sure if he had the brain capacity to think beyond the basic need to get fucked then he would be much more eloquent about how much he wants it. But he doesn’t, and the only words that slip out are just a messy, “Wanna come—can I come, please—please—”

And then San slows down again.

Wooyoung has to bite his tongue to keep himself from sobbing in frustration because San won’t fucking stop edging him. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been at this point, that he’s been hard like this, ready to come. He doesn’t have the slightest clue how many times San has brought him to the edge, but he knows that his body’s almost had enough, way too overwhelmed to take anything else, and even the slow drag of San’s hand down his chest to rest over his stomach, pulling Wooyoung even closer, has him moaning pitifully.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes,” Wooyoung slurs.

“Open your eyes, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung blinks, mind too hazy to concentrate on anything with the loss of his orgasm. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking at, eyes barely managing to open, way too heavy for him to even try.

And…holy shit. He can’t stop the whimper that slips out when his vision adjusts in the dark because what the _fuck._ What the fuck, he thinks, because he finally sees it.

San has a floor-length mirror to the side of the room and it’s positioned so that Wooyoung can see how he looks, the way San has him pinned to the wall, the way his back arches for San in a near C-shape. He can see the tears running down his cheeks, the slick that’s smeared all over his chin and shit, it’s disgusting and downright mortifying, but Wooyoung’s never been afraid of getting his hands dirty so he _loves_ it. 

Even the mere sight of San crowding him into the wall from behind is enough to have his orgasm creeping up on him again.

San only looks back at Wooyoung through the mirror, eyes not once leaving him even when he pushes back inside, even while he fists Wooyoung’s hair hard enough that it hurts. The pain barely registers because he’s hyper-focused on the way they look, San fucking Wooyoung hard enough he can’t even think about the fact that he’s got his head shoved into the wall. It’s rough and messy, and he has barely any feeling left in his legs, limp like he’s made for San to fuck—San, and San only.

“Eyes open for me, baby,” San murmurs, and the hand in his hair tightens again. “Yeah, just like that.”

The belated realisation that he might just be that—might be a perfect little toy for San to fuck at his leisure—has his eyes slipping shut in embarrassment. 

San’s fingers sink into his hair before yanking so hard Wooyoung’s eyes snap back open immediately because it fucking _stings._ Then San’s breathing out, “What did I _just_ fuckin’ say?”

Wooyoung can’t even muster an apology, only a muffled whine because his tongue is too heavy in his mouth and he’s forgotten how to formulate words. San’s response is to thrust into Wooyoung harder. Wooyoung nearly yells, his hand shooting down automatically to seize San’s wrist, nails digging into San’s knuckles before flattening out over San’s hand and—

 _Holy fuck,_ he thinks. _What the hell._

It registers San’s going hard enough that Wooyoung can _feel_ San’s dick through the soft skin of his stomach. Wooyoung’s not thin by any means—he’s got ass and thighs and barely-there abs, so the fact that he can feel the bulge almost makes his eyes pop out of his head. Shit, it’s not even like San’s the same size as the biggest toy he’s ever owned but something about this is so twisted, depraved even, because he can only stare back at San through the mirror, open-mouthed, eyebrows furrowed in the middle.

The smile that graces San’s lips tell him that he’s noticed as well, because he just says lowly, the words resonating in Wooyoung’s ears, “God, cock _does_ make you stupid, huh, Youngie?”

San’s words are enough to have his eyes rolling back immediately, and fuck, he wants to come so badly. He can’t even seem to ask at this point, far too gone to even try stringing the words together so that he can beg—so that he can beg San to finally let him come, so that he can beg San to finally deliver what he had promised back at the club. Wooyoung’s not sure if he’ll even be able to remember his own name by the end of it.

“Needy baby,” San teases, and even the look on his face has his breath catching in his throat, head spinning by how intense it is. How San looks when he looks right back at him, eyes piercing Wooyoung’s soul. “Think you could come like this?”

A sob bursts out of Wooyoung, more tears running down his face, and he can only slightly shake his head in response. The sight of San’s grin widening has his hands pressing down on his stomach again, and just the feeling of San inside him like that has him losing his mind. He can’t think too hard about—because he really is getting fucked stupid—but in some way, they’re so sexually compatible that it’s almost as if San’s his. And like he’s San’s, too. The implication that San could do this every day, could fill him up whenever he wants, could _use_ him whenever he wants, has him tightening up in seconds.

“I asked you a question, Wooyoung.”

“I don’t know—fuck—I don’t know, I can’t, _I can’t, please—_ ”

San just laughs, leaning in close and then there’s the feeling of his mouth dragging up the length of Wooyoung’s neck—familiar, comforting for a second before San is nipping at his earlobe, sharp and borderline painful. “You’re gonna come just like this, okay?”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon, Wooyoung,” San chides, and then Wooyoung feels San’s hand press in again, fingers digging into his skin and making Wooyoung feel the bulge of his cock through his own stomach. 

The smile on his face has slipped, and in its place remains a disappointed look. Fuck, he looks almost upset, a pout on his lips, eyes blinking owlishly. It's deceivingly innocent, and if it were any other situation, Wooyoung would have laughed at how easy it is for San to flip the switch like this. He’s staring at Wooyoung in thinly-veiled disappointment, and the fact that he sounds like he’s scolding Wooyoung as if he’s a child really doesn’t help. “You don’t wanna upset Sannie, do you?”

Holy shit.

It should be fucking weird that San’s referring to himself in the third person but Wooyoung’s dick seems to think otherwise. He’s even harder than before if that’s even possible, cock weeping more precome, and his eyes slip shut involuntarily again.

He doesn’t even notice until San slaps his ass, making him yelp and struggle in San’s hold as his eyes shoot open, gaze meeting San’s grim one.

“If you can’t come like this then I’ll stop and finish myself off,” San says, and the warning is clear in his tone. Wooyoung might be out of it, but he’s not dumb enough to think that San isn’t being completely serious. He knows San really would, if everything they’ve done up until that point tells him what kind of bedroom partner San is. “Would you like that, Youngie? Want me to come all by myself?”

“No,” Wooyoung sniffles. God, he looks like a fucking mess. His eyeliner’s all smudged and he’s got drool all over his chin and San is still looking at him through the mirror like he wants to eat him, still keeping him pressed into the wall by the head while he gently strokes Wooyoung’s stomach, reminding him of who’s in control. “No, _please,_ I—”

San just continues as if he didn’t hear Wooyoung at all. “Would you like that, Wooyoung? Want me to come all over your ass just like this?

Oh my God.

“You’re such a fucking bastard,” Wooyoung snaps—or really, he tries, but it comes out weak, whiny, and small because his voice hardly works anymore.

San laughs. His voice is mocking. “C’mon, baby, tell me. You want that? Or do you want it all over your face instead?” 

The mental image that pops up from San’s statement is utterly crude yet arousing. 

Wooyoung shivers at the thought of being on his knees in front of San again, San coming on his face, San’s come dripping down into his open mouth, licking it off of San’s fingers. He wonders what he’d look like, a complete mess with tears slipping down his cheeks, black smudged around his eyes while he’s got San’s come all over his face. He wonders if San would like the sight of him like that. He knows he does, because just the idea of sitting there, eyes turned up at San while he’s got his mouth wide open and full of come has him swaying on his feet.

And yet.

And yet he doesn’t want that entirely, either. It all comes back to that moment at the club.

It all comes back to the moment Wooyoung had asked San if he was clean.

 _“Inside,”_ Wooyoung slurs.

Shit, he sounds so fucking gone it’s not even funny anymore. His eyes barely stay open, only managing because he doesn’t want San to stop and also because San making him watch himself is a power move if he’s ever seen one. Either way, the sight of his back arching like a bow to allow San to slide in deeper and the way he goes all pliant, loose, and willing is going to make him come. He wants to come, but he wants to feel San coming inside him even more. “Inside me, please—fill me up—want it inside, please—”

“Really?” San asks teasingly. God, he sounds so fucking amused and unaffected that it almost has Wooyoung crying even harder. “Doesn’t look like it to me.”

Then San’s letting go of Wooyoung only to reach up and grab him by the wrists, yanking his arms behind his back. Fuck. _Fuck,_ he thinks, watching the way he looks, shoulders pressed into the wall while his hips push back. He can’t take his eyes off the sight of his smaller body giving way to San’s larger frame, all broad shoulders and tiny waist and _big_ —he’s mesmerized by the sight of his pretty, flawless skin against the paleness of San’s, against the swirls of black ink that decorate his chest. Shit. 

It’s criminal just how much control San has over him, and it’s humiliating yet rewarding seeing the way he bends to San’s will. Quite literally, he supposes, because this way, with one hand sliding back up to his hair and the other keeping his hands behind his back, he can feel the stretch. It burns, and it feels so fucking good that Wooyoung gasps around a moan, and he’s entirely too willing to beg again.

“No,” he gasps wetly, and he can’t even see San clearly anymore because his vision’s gone blurry with the tears. “No, I can—I can do it, please—wan’ it inside—Sannie, _please._ ”

“Good boy,” San murmurs, and for a split second, it's gentle. Loving, almost. It doesn’t even matter how hard San is fucking into him, because he leans in, lips brushing against Wooyoung’s temple in a kiss so sweet Wooyoung forgets how to breathe. Tongues of flame lap at his skin when San drops his head to leave a kiss on his shoulder, but then the man looks up again, and that fond expression is gone, and he grins.

Teeth sink into his shoulder, hard, and a pained cry tumbles out of his mouth at how much it hurts, at how much he likes it. Somewhere in the fog of his brain, there’s a voice telling him that he won’t be able to walk tomorrow, or even show his face to his roommates because they’re going to see the way he limps, they’re going to see the marks decorating his neck, his collarbones—anywhere San can get his mouth on. The fact that everybody’s going to see evidence of the fact that San _owned_ him for the night shouldn’t turn him on this much, but he feels like he’s going to come.

Fuck, he doesn’t even need San’s hand on his dick. He’s really going to come just like this, untouched, just how San had wanted.

Wooyoung can barely breathe, every shuddered inhale coming out in the form of cracked whines, moans and whimpers that keep spilling out of his mouth, high and needy. 

Messy.

His muscles are tightening as his limbs lock up again, and he can only helplessly watch the way his body seizes under San’s grip, arms thrashing in San’s hold because he still won’t let go, railing him into the wall. If San wasn’t keeping his head in place, he’s sure he would have gotten a concussion because his head would keep knocking into the hard surface with how rough San is.

It’s when a shriek finally makes its way out of his mouth that he knows San’s found the best angle, because San’s grip in his hair loosens the harder he goes. He doesn’t slow down even for a second, not even paying attention to the fact that Wooyoung’s all incoherent now, gasping _wanna come, can I come, please,_ under his breath, head lolling. The churning sensation in his gut is back, the burn beginning in the pit of his stomach and extending out towards his fingertips, his toes, and San’s shallow, grunting noises rattle Wooyoung’s chest just the same. He can’t even help the way he hiccups around a moan, the sound ending on a sob, “Sannie—can I come—Youngie wants to come, please—”

“Fuck,” San hisses, likely feeling the way Wooyoung’s clenching down in desperation, hole fluttering around the thick length inside him. And then he’s saying the magic words, voice hoarse, fingers tightening around him. “Come for me, baby.”

It’s his voice that tips Wooyoung over the edge. 

He can faintly hear San letting out a groan at the way Wooyoung tightens up as his body all but convulses. Wooyoung comes so hard he nearly blacks out, vision whiting out as his eyes roll back, a searing pleasure travelling all the way from his feet, up his spine and numbing his brain, entire body slackening under San’s bruising grip, jolting as aftershocks wrack his frame. Now he knows what those cartoon characters with dizzy stars feel like—his head’s spinning and he can’t feel anything except San’s cock still inside him and the white-hot pulses of his orgasm still ripping through him.

Next thing he knows, his legs are giving out, and if it wasn’t for the fact that San’s still holding him up, he would have collapsed against the wall.

His head knocks into the wall again, but he can’t find it in himself to care about it even the slightest bit because he’s too boneless, knees buckling under his own weight. San’s arms circle around his waist and tug him up, pulling him back till he’s standing upright, head dropping back onto San’s shoulder. A small pained moan slips out when he feels San’s tongue peek out, lapping over the bruises and marks he’s left all over Wooyoung’s neck and collarbones and shoulders. His breath tickles, but the feeling of his cock still filling Wooyoung up has him shaking even harder, shuddering with the low rumble of every syllable against his skin.

“What do you say, sweetheart?”

For a second, Wooyoung’s confused. It’s mostly because he can’t fucking think at all, long past the point of no return, because he can barely string words together let alone pick apart what San just said. And then his head turns to a side, and he sees the way San’s holding him up, the way their bodies are almost melding together to form what’s probably the filthiest thing that he had ever seen. It’s the look on San’s face when he returns the stare, their faces so close that Wooyoung can see the little moles San has on his cheek and above his eye, that Wooyoung realises what San could possibly mean.

_Politely._

_Not until I let you._

_Ungrateful little shit._

Oh, fuck.

Just the sweet pet name combined with the weight of the situation makes the words spill out in a jumbled, tangled heap without him even being aware of them.

“Thank you,” Wooyoung heaves, his mouth moving of its own accord before his brain can supply the words. He’s a mess of spit and tears and sweat, but he’ll be good for San. San hasn’t broken him just yet, though it feels like he’s really fucking close to it, but he’ll please San in any way he can. He _wants_ to please San, wants San to see that he can be good if he tries. That San is worth being good for. “Thank you, Sannie, _thankyouthankyouthankyou—”_

“Good boy,” San murmurs against his skin. “My pretty little baby.”

God, the fact that San’s being possessive should turn Wooyoung off like it usually does since he hates clingy people, but it’s in fact quite the opposite—it only makes him tighten up again and—oh. _Oh,_ San’s still inside of him. That’s enough to make him feel like his limbs are going to melt, can barely hear the quiet hiss San lets out when he clenches down again because he’s entranced by the fact that San is still inside him, still hard and wet. And San still hasn’t come. A ragged whine leaves his mouth when San shifts, brushing against his prostate again before he pulls out completely.

Fuck, he feels empty, hollow.

Incomplete.

Wooyoung lets San spin him around, hiccuping as he lets San do what he wants. He slides a hand down between them to wrap around San’s cock to jack him off because it’s the least he can do after everything that had just happened, after all the man did to fuck him good like he had promised. He’s surprised when San only bats his hand away, his breath unexpectedly even as he leans in to give Wooyoung a kiss instead. Wooyoung tries to reciprocate, but he has no energy left so it’s all tongue and teeth and _messy_ because his lungs feel like they’ve closed up, filled with the flowers that San’s bloomed on his skin.

“Up,” San orders against his lips. 

It’s honestly a miracle that Wooyoung can even understand basic monosyllabic vocabulary at this point. As soon as San leans down, hands sliding down to grab his thighs, Wooyoung gives himself a push and wraps his legs around San’s waist as San lifts him up. He’s hoisted up with ease, and Wooyoung can’t help the soft groan that slips out of his mouth when he feels his cock brush against San’s stomach again.

Then he’s walking to the bed, sitting down before he makes himself comfortable, pulling Wooyoung on top of him, lips not breaking apart, still kissing him fervently. Wooyoung’s eyelids are heavy, the weight tugging down at them to close, and he’s exhausted enough that he’s pretty sure he’ll collapse in the next few minutes and sleep for a million years. Wait, scratch that, make it two million years. His head is still pounding with the intensity of his orgasm, thighs trembling from where they’re on either side of San’s hips.

“Sleepy?” San asks when they break for air, voice warm and gentle against his skin.

Wooyoung can only manage a nod.

San hums, but then there’s that familiar grin. “Too bad.”

He doesn’t know why he expects San to give him a break.

The words that follow feel like a punch to the gut.

“What, did you think we were finished?”

Wait.

Wait, what the fuck.

“Huh?” Wooyoung croaks out mindlessly, unable to help the incredulous look that takes over his face.

He’s tired, especially since he’s just cried his eyes out begging for cock and begging to come. His dick betrays him, however, twitching in interest at the suggestion of San’s question. Wooyoung’s always had a short refractory period and an exceptional libido, which is why he’s never been able to make someone stay—nobody can satisfy him. But to have his partner be the one asking for more? This guy’s definitely a keeper in Wooyoung’s book. 

Wooyoung blinks sluggishly, willing himself to wake up for round two. “No, lemme just—what?”

San’s hands brush against his sides, fingers sliding along the length of his ribcage before they settle on his waist, palms resting on his hip. The weight of them is heavy and warm—familiar—and then San smirks at him again. The words that leave San’s mouth has his thighs squeezing together in seconds, the dwindling embers in Wooyoung already rekindled.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not done with you yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> variations of the word "fuck" were used 147 times x


	3. yearning for more (can't take it anymore)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> San’s not done with Wooyoung yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **DISCLAIMER:**  
>  \- UNDERNEGOTIATED KINKPLAY!!! they just meet n do things  
> \- safe, sane and consensual, but this is NOT an accurate representation of bdsm so pls do not do this irl  
> \- san switches between being a hard dom and a soft dom  
> \- woo's in subspace and in a lowk weird headspace for a bit bc he's overwhelmed but they have a safeword so the assumption is that he's ok!
> 
> you know the drill, y'all. if any of these makes you uncomfortable, feel free to close the tab :) if not, then enjoy 18.6k of absolute filth
> 
> here's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/67wGAoR2ysRyGo4YeXu8oQ?si=pcm978NbQu6m8KmPn9gQig)

It’s quiet.

At least Wooyoung thinks so—the wet, open mouthed kiss that San gives him is nothing in comparison to how he railed Wooyoung to the point of tears. The man is gentle, palms soothing against his overheated skin while he slowly comes down from his high, until he isn’t sniffling anymore, until he’s finally able to string words together and speak intelligibly. 

Until he realises he can feel San against his hip, cock hard and wet. 

He still hasn’t come.

The first thing San does when Wooyoung pulls away from their kiss is murmur softly, “What’s your colour, baby?”

“Green,” Wooyoung pants, voice all shaky and hoarse from how fucking hard San had gone, with how loopy he is already from finally being able to come after getting edged countless times. Just the feeling of San’s large hands dragging along his skin has him shuddering, body thrumming with another burst of adrenaline, and he feels his heart go into overdrive once again because he’s so damn sensitive, especially when it comes to San. He clears his throat. “Green.”

Even San’s warm breath on his neck has him almost whimpering, but the feeling of his naked body pressing into San’s, giving into San’s—marked and big and _bad,_ the dragons curling around the edges, ink tapering off into creamy white—definitely has him trembling. Fuck. It’s not even like he’s a virgin. Nor has he ever claimed he’s a saint, but to know that Wooyoung’s own skin is bruised, to know that he has sanguines and violets and azures painted over him in pretty patterns because of a man who looks like _this,_ is enough to make him go mental.

“Good,” San says quietly. His eyes still haven’t left Wooyoung’s face, and once again, Wooyoung feels stripped completely bare for San to pick apart and have his fun with. “Because you’re giving me two more.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Wooyoung’s brain long ago stopped trying to keep up at this point. He’s struggling to comprehend the words that just came out of San’s mouth, blinking slowly in confusion as it processes all too slowly, his own reply more one of shock. “W-What?”

“You heard me.” 

He takes one of his hands off of Wooyoung’s waist, reaching up to brush his knuckles against Wooyoung’s cheek. He moves his sweaty bangs out of his eyes, his gaze never leaving Wooyoung’s own. Wooyoung’s breath hitches because the gesture is so tender, so caring. It’s a full 180—almost like Wooyoung can convince himself that this isn’t the same man who made him beg, who made him cry, who made him come just minutes earlier. He searches San’s eyes for a hint of that, waiting for him to take off whatever this mask is, but finds only sincerity.

San tugs Wooyoung along with him as he moves back, making his way to sit comfortably against the headboard of his bed. His head is tilted back, his face carefully neutral while he looks back at Wooyoung who’s on his knees, sitting in front of San, almost between his legs. San’s hand reaches down, and he taps his thigh once, twice, eyes not straying from Wooyoung’s smaller frame. The strain in his voice is audible and it makes Wooyoung’s stomach flutter in anticipation.

“Sit on it.”

Warmth starts to surface underneath his skin much like the shame that creeps up his neck in the form of red, another deep blush that he knows dusts his cheeks crimson. Shit, that’s hot. He can’t take his eyes off of San who’s looking at him, a gentle smile slowly tugging at the corners of his mouth at Wooyoung’s reaction. It’s even hotter that San can do something so filthy while looking at him like that—so innocently, so wholesomely, even. He crawls over towards San, his palms sliding up San’s thighs, memorizing the way the taut muscles feel under his touch when he makes his way between the man’s legs.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion when he goes to straddle San, who only shakes his head.

“No,” San says, looking intently at Wooyoung, the devilish smirk never leaving his face. “Wanna see your ass when you’re riding me.”

Jesus Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The words go straight to his dick, and judging by the way San’s free hand goes to hold the base of his own, it’s the same for him. He can’t even say anything—he shouldn’t even be surprised anymore, really. Nothing that San says or does should shock him after everything that’s happened tonight, but San’s words awaken something in Wooyoung again in seconds. He’s obeying, immediately turning around without a single protest, throwing a leg over San’s thighs and leaning forward to grasp the sheets for balance.

He goes to ease down onto San’s cock but then the man’s grabbing him by the hips and stopping him.

“I didn’t say kneel, Wooyoung,” San comments from behind him. “I told you to sit.”

He hates that he knows exactly what San is asking him to do.

“I’m not a fucking dog,” Wooyoung snaps without thinking, turning his head to look at San, who—who does _not_ look pleased. 

Shit, he looks pissed. San’s affectionate expression from earlier has vanished without a trace. He’s back to all ice and stone now—unreadable. Wooyoung just had to open his mouth, didn’t he? Wooyoung clenches his jaw, holding his ground and willing himself to shut up before he can say anything else that he knows will make San lose his temper. He turns back around because if anything, the look on San’s face is turning him on even more, his body giving away the way he truly feels.

“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” San says simply, his voice oddly calm and collected. 

The heat between his thighs is getting more unbearable the longer he watches San, his face carefully neutral. For some reason, the fact that he no longer looks fazed, no longer looks as upset as he was—almost disinterested, or dismissive, if that’s the right word—sends jolts of electricity through his bloodstream. There’s a single drop of sweat that slowly slides down San’s forehead, down his temple, and Wooyoung doesn’t entirely know how to feel about the fact that he wants to have a taste. Wants to lean down and run his tongue all over the hard planes of San’s chest and torso and see what it really feels like, have San fall apart beneath his touch.

It’s dangerous, Wooyoung knows. He shivers involuntarily before deciding that whatever San has in store for him can’t be _that_ bad. He’s already gotten what he wanted, he reasons. San let him come already, and although his dick is obviously ready for more, he can deal with walking out, can’t he?

So he adds insult to injury, against his better judgement.

“I thought you wanted to see the view,” Wooyoung declares, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, when really he’s quaking in his metaphorical boots because he has no idea how San is going to react.

It doesn’t even matter if San had him crying, a complete mess against the wall, just minutes ago, because this…this is what Wooyoung lives for. The push-and-pull. The power struggle that he always, always somehow wins. It’s not his fault all of his partners could barely keep up with him, always talking about how they could punish a brat right, only to give up when they found out not only was Wooyoung insatiable, but that he’s also a dom’s worst nightmare, as he laughed in their faces.

And maybe that’s why he can’t help himself from wanting to see how _San_ would react, because so far, San’s been able to return every single thing Wooyoung throws at him by tenfold. He’s more than able to keep up—it’s not about Wooyoung snapping at his partners to fuck him harder or better or this or that anymore. It’s not about whether Wooyoung will have to take control in the end like he always had to.

Nah, not anymore.

San can make Wooyoung _beg,_ and that’s more than enough reason for him to cave. He can’t even stop himself from turning his head to sneak a look at the man over his shoulder again.

There’s that familiar glint in San’s eyes, the corner of his lip twitching and the resulting smirk absolutely _infuriating_ yet so fucking hot as the light catches on his ring, and Wooyoung knows then that he shouldn’t have bothered in the first place because now he’s bit off more than he can chew. 

“Fine,” San hums, tongue peeking out to run over his bottom lip and that _fucking_ ring before he tilts his head in a silent challenge. The fact that he looks that amused by Wooyoung simultaneously has his blood boiling with anger and arousal inching through every nerve ending, has him wanting to see if San’s composure will break when Wooyoung finally sits on his dick—if it’ll break when Wooyoung finally makes him come. “Go on, then.”

Fuck. 

Wooyoung gulps, finding it suddenly hard to swallow as his throat goes dry. He should have known. He really should have fucking known. 

San is, strictly speaking, brat tamer personified. 

The fact that he genuinely is a bit of an asshole in bed, and enjoys it no less, doesn’t help either because that only means that San’s favorite thing to do is making Wooyoung regret acting up. It’s making Wooyoung regret ever opening his mouth. It’s making Wooyoung regret even _considering_ pissing him off in the first place, and it’s definitely going to be making Wooyoung choke on his own tears and pleads of _I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry_ till he’s a drooling mess under San, till he can’t remember his own name, till he’s coming so hard he blacks out.

He should’ve known San would make him put his money where his mouth is.

“What, you getting shy on me now?” San asks when Wooyoung remains motionless, his smile only getting wider by the second. His hand on Wooyoung’s hip gets tighter, thumb massaging the sore spot there from his grip earlier, and his other hand draws invisible patterns on his thigh, raising goosebumps on Wooyoung’s skin in its wake. “Wow, you really _are_ pathetic, Youngie.”

Fuck.

If he were a lesser man, the words honestly might have had him begging. Not that he _wasn’t_ begging just a while ago while he was getting fucked silly into the drywall. But Wooyoung wouldn’t be himself if he still didn’t try to actively make San’s life a living hell—or in this context, he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t try to make San eat his own words. San might think he’s in control here, especially after reducing Wooyoung to a puddle of spit and tears as easily as he did.

But he’s wrong.

He couldn’t be further from the truth, Wooyoung thinks. San hasn’t gotten to see him in his element just yet, and he plans on making San regret it because now he has the chance.

They’re done beating around the bush now, skirting around each other. They’re done taking each other’s pawns. Now it’s time for Wooyoung to actually play the game to see what San’s made of.

He can’t help but glance at San once more, biting his lip as he makes himself comfortable. 

Their eyes never leave each other, both of them too far gone to spend a single second looking at anything else, and honestly, he doesn’t blame San for wanting to look at him. He knows he looks good like this. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t bother shoving down the smirk that immediately starts growing on his face, maintaining eye contact with the man over his shoulder before reaching behind him, holding the base of San’s cock and sinking down on it torturously slowly with a small moan, a little self-satisfied sound, reveling in the way San inhales sharply behind him.

_Fuck._

If Wooyoung didn’t feel the same way—if he didn’t feel so fucking full already—then he would laugh about the fact that the thought pops into his head at the same time that San lets out a low drawn-out _“Fuck.”_

An airy giggle slips out of his mouth, and he circles his hips slowly to properly adjust. 

Fuck, he hasn’t even properly moved and he’s already trying to catch his breath. Like this, San feels even deeper than he was before. Wooyoung’s definitely not one to complain if he’s got something that thick filling him up. He can feel the way San’s cock stretches him out, dragging along his rim and his walls before settling in deep, opening him up. There’s lube dripping from him with how much San had used earlier, and judging by the choked moan that comes from behind him, San noticed as well.

He’s fully seated now, and even the slightest shift of his hips upward has San’s cock sliding out just a bit. Even the small movement has a little whimper bursting out of him, but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all, because San’s hips twitch just by the fucking sight. Those large hands are grabbing onto his waist again, fingers digging painfully into the outlines of the bruises that are already there.

Yeah, he thinks victoriously. He’s got San in the palm of his hand, right where he wants him.

Wooyoung leans forward, placing his hands on the tops of San’s thighs for balance. He knows that this way, San can see the way his back looks even better. The gentle slope of his spine, his waist that San’s hands somehow fit perfectly on, his hips and his thick thighs. A loud moan rips out of his chest when he lifts his hips up and drops back down in one fluid motion, wrangling another loud groan from San.

“Shit,” San gasps, his voice impossibly huskier than before. _"S_ _hit,_ look at you, baby.”

“Yeah?” Wooyoung says, breathless. “Do I look pretty, Sannie?”

Again, Wooyoung’s not religious, but there’s a special place in hell for him, he just knows it. 

He’s far too gone to even have the slightest chance at redemption, and he knows that too. He’s been on his knees for San, he had the audacity to thank every higher power while committing probably half of the sins known to man, and he’d honestly even go so far as to let San take him to the altar, if it means he’ll get fucked like this more. Just the sound of San’s filthy moan at his words, rough and dark and deep, has flames igniting in the pit of his stomach, and his thighs are already shaking from where they are, on either side of San’s hips.

“Fuck, yeah,” San groans. “So pretty for me, sweetheart.”

Wooyoung’s heart goes warm and fuzzy at that, and _goddamn,_ he’s such a simp for this guy it’s not even funny now. He can’t even stop the way his hips stutter at San’s response, because he’s supposed to be the one in control here and yet San’s got him wrapped around his finger with just a few words and a wicked grin. God, he’s shaking so fucking hard it’s a miracle he can even keep himself upright sitting on San’s dick.

San’s so deep that it has his eyes rolling back whenever he shifts even a little bit. He’s never felt this way before, not with anyone he’s spent even a single night with. He’s usually safe about these things, but San makes him want to throw all caution out the window—both metaphorically and literally. He’s not sure if he wants to have sex without a condom ever again if _this_ is what it feels like.

Or maybe it’s just San.

The thought brings him back to the image of San coming inside him, and that has him trembling all over again, tightening up so fast the man under him lets out a little gasp again. Oh, hell. San sounds pretty in bed, too. It only motivates him to lift up again, dropping back down on San’s lap with a loud smack that has San’s hands squeezing, thighs flexing under Wooyoung’s palms. He’s moving on top of San in little circles, easing into it, grinding slowly before tilting up, letting San see where they’re connected, see the way his cock looks sliding in and out of Wooyoung.

To say that San’s affected by the view would be an understatement, because Wooyoung purposely slows down on an upward stroke. He lets San take in the sight of his cock, wet and hard and impossibly thick, sliding out until only the head remains, making the man’s hips buck, and Wooyoung can’t help the pleased smile that climbs onto his face.

No, he thinks. San had his turn earlier. Now it’s Wooyoung’s to return everything back and more. 

“Stay still, Sannie,” he says sweetly.

His hips wiggle to get himself comfortable, and then he’s leaning over, hands braced on San’s thighs before he sinks back down. Shit, his thighs burn the longer he goes at this pace, unhurried and steady, muscles straining with the effort of keeping himself going when he feels like he’s being split open. Wooyoung’s head drops, hanging limply between his shoulders, and the sound of San’s bed creaking in protest the harder he drops back down is like music to his ears.

He basks in the groans that ring out from behind him each time he lifts up and sinks back down on San’s cock. Maybe he’s teased the man enough. Wooyoung’s already come, and San still hasn’t, too focused on making sure he ruined Wooyoung on his dick to care about the fact that he’s still _giving._ That might be the only reason Wooyoung finally picks up the pace, sinking his nails into San’s thighs to keep himself balanced while he moves back and forth, more than happy to bounce on San’s lap.

He’s pretty sure if given the chance, he would do this all fucking day.

It’s undisputedly lewd, the way he fucks himself like this. It’s even worse, seeing the way his own cock looks, rubbing against his abdomen the faster he drops down. There’s precome on his stomach, caking over the mess he already made from when San was prepping him, and San’s hands on his waist look even better next to it. Soft gasps keep tumbling out of his mouth the longer he goes, and they sound even prettier than they usually do with San’s low moans of appreciation accompanying them.

His thighs are shaking with the strain, ready to give out as a delicious burn like an anesthetic numbs the muscles in his legs, but it feels too fucking good for him to stop. Fuck, he probably won’t be able to walk tomorrow. 

No, he _definitely_ won’t be able to walk tomorrow. Not with this pace, and not with how full he feels. Not when San’s thick and filling him up like this, not when he can barely keep himself together.

There are shocks of pleasure that wrack his spine, coursing through his entire body as he sets an absolutely brutal pace, one that has him feeling like his limbs are going to start melting if he doesn’t keep holding onto San for support. The creaking’s gotten exceptionally loud, and Wooyoung sends a silent apology to San’s neighbours when a strangled noise slips out of him that’s most likely audible through the wall.

Or not, because he’s not sorry.

He’s not sorry at all.

Wooyoung’s no exhibitionist, but the remnants of San’s body on his are something to be flaunted. There’s some part of him that _wants_ other people to know how good San is making him feel, that he belongs to San, that only San will have the pleasure of ruining him like this.

San might have fucked him within an inch of his life earlier, but Wooyoung knows exactly what he likes. He knows how to navigate every inch of San’s body—just how far he has to lean forward to take San even deeper, knows the perfect angle that’ll have that thick cock pressing right against his prostate, knows exactly how hard he has to go before he ends up becoming a slurry, incoherent mess all by himself. So he does just that—he continues with the rough rhythm that they’ve got going.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung moans, and he can hear just how far gone he is just by the way he sounds all high and breathy. Whiny, tears audible even in his voice. He can barely focus, intoxicated by the feeling of getting fucked open like this, head lolling as he tries to climb the high that’s been threatening to hit him. _"_ _Fuck,_ Sannie, feels so good.”

 _“Baby,"_ San groans, and the slight turn of his head shows him the way San’s head drops back against the headboard, the way the sharp cut of his jaw extends to the arch of his neck. The way his throat bobs when he swallows thickly, completely enthralled by the sight of Wooyoung riding him like this. “Shit, _shit.”_

San’s voice is broken, guttural. Every time Wooyoung sinks down on his cock, he sharply inhales, and his exhales turn into moans the longer that Wooyoung goes, the faster that Wooyoung’s hips smack down against San’s thighs. He wonders if this is what San felt like when he had Wooyoung hanging in the balance. Something about taking whatever he wants from the man under him makes him even greedier than he already is. He’s had enough people tell him in his life that he’s one insatiable little fuck in everything that he does.

The fact that San is tipping, tipping, _tipping_ as easily as this with just a little circle of his hips has him lightheaded, woozy, tipsy—drunk on the power that keeps bubbling in his mouth in the form of pretty little moans that go way too well with the gasps that slip past San’s gritted teeth.

Wooyoung relishes every little noise he coaxes from San’s lips, relishing the praise because he’s pleasing San _._ He’s pleasing San, the proof of it in the way San’s thighs have started to tremble under Wooyoung’s palms, the muscles flexing as San evidently struggles to stay still and not thrust up into Wooyoung. He’s being good, Wooyoung realizes.

San is being good for him.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” San pants, the edges of his words jagged as he attempts to maintain what Wooyoung assumes is faltering self-control. “You can do better than that.”

“Can I, Sannie?” Wooyoung asks, the cheekiness in his voice clear even through his own labored breathing. He rolls his hips, purposely clenching down around San’s thick length and reveling in the consequent surprised gasp that resounds from behind him, the hands on his waist gripping so hard that there are undeniably bruises in the shape of fingerprints already forming there. “Can I do better?”

San is having a difficult time—there’s no doubt about it. He can’t even reply to Wooyoung right away, probably too busy trying to ground himself and hold on as long as he can, the bastard. Of course he would want to best Wooyoung.

And then San’s hands reach around him, pressing flat against his stomach. His palms are searing, but it’s an emollient kind of heat that soothes Wooyoung’s skin to mirror the salve of San’s tongue against his neck, and it’s fucking perfect. Even then, the fact that his grip tightens at the sound of Wooyoung’s words nearly make Wooyoung laugh again. Hook, line and sinker.

“Fuck you,” San spits. 

Just too easy.

It’s ridiculous that San’s this wound up, a stark contrast to how he was acting just minutes ago, fucking Wooyoung so hard he nearly passed out against the wall. To anyone else who didn’t know any better, they’d think that Wooyoung’s in control, more than content to take San, to play with San however he wants. And to be fair, it is true—he is in control, yeah. But it’s only for the moment, which doesn’t mean the dynamics are the same.

Wooyoung would never admit this willingly, but he wants San to lose it. He wants San to ruin him, and San is more than willing to deliver.

It’s why he provokes San with his words and keeps pushing him like this. If what had happened earlier was just an appetizer, Wooyoung knows that what will follow is the main course and he’s fucking _starving._ And it’s why he looks back at San again, eyes twinkling in delight as he breathes out, “Aw, don’t think you can handle it?”

“Don’t test me,” San snarls. He inhales sharply when Wooyoung whimpers again, working his hips in filthy circles to fuck himself on San’s cock. “You fucking brat—”

“Am I wrong?”

The look on his face goes back to near unbothered, far too casual. Relaxed. But Wooyoung knows better than that—just one look at the slight downturn of the corner of San’s mouth, the intensity in his eyes and the way his chest is heaving tells Wooyoung enough about how much the man is having a hard time keeping himself still, how much he’s tempted to take the reins again. The sight is more than enough for Wooyoung to know that San, just like Wooyoung himself, hadn’t known what he was signing up for.

But even then—

Even then, San composes himself more, schools his expression, and he’s murmuring, “Try me.”

 _That_ Wooyoung can do.

It’s what he does best, reflected in the way he fucks himself like this is the last time he’ll ever get a chance to, like his life depends on it. The slap of skin-on-skin is downright obscene, each time Wooyoung drops down, taking San all the way, making him feel so deliciously full and stretched out that he honestly has to try not to come on the spot. There are flames dancing across his skin, burning through him so quickly there are beads of sweat running down his temple, his chest, a moan ripping through his lungs so loud San’s fingers tighten again. Like this, at this pace, San’s cock doesn’t even pull out all the way.

He’s filled up the whole time, just how he wants.

Judging by the words that ring out, San feels the same way.

“Fuck, Wooyoung—I’m gonna come,” San groans, his voice impossibly rough, “‘m gonna come— _fuck—”_

“You’re gonna come?” Wooyoung asks with a giggle, out of breath. “You gonna fill me up, Sannie?”

All he gets in response is a nonsensical moan, and Wooyoung shivers. San can’t even talk. Pride wells up in him because _this_ is his purpose. But it’s not enough. Wooyoung isn’t satisfied. He hasn’t taken his revenge.

So he decides to return the favor. San didn’t let him come right away earlier, so he’ll do just that right back.

Wooyoung slows down, drawing out of San what he can only explain as a low whine, until only the head of San’s cock is inside of him. He stays there, holding the position, unmoving. His thighs shake but he ignores it, ignores the oncoming cramps in the muscles. Ignores San’s deep whimper and quivering legs, resisting the urge to buck his hips, searching for Wooyoung’s tight heat again.

Then Wooyoung laughs.

Wooyoung feels an onslaught of giddiness, each peal of laughter bubbling up out of him unexpectedly. This is so fun. It’s so fun having San on the ropes like this—exactly where San had _him,_ just minutes ago. It's entirely a different kind of satisfaction that bubbles up in his gut because San, even in his position, is still letting Wooyoung do whatever he wants.

He's letting Wooyoung get away with it.

And Wooyoung is not one to dismiss an opportunity as great as this.

That’s why he drops back down again, taking San’s cock all the way. The man under him answers with a resounding slap to Wooyoung’s skin, palm smacking down on his hip so hard that he can’t help the small cry that slips out. Yeah, this is what he expected. For San to lose it, little by little, aiming to completely ruin San by the end of it. The way he moves on top of San is fluid and effortless, the way his nails sink into San’s thighs as he works his hips, the sound of skin meeting skin deafeningly loud in San’s bedroom. 

His cock is slapping against his stomach while he bounces on San’s lap, leaving a messy trail of precome that San’s fingers would brush against if he reached forward even a little bit. Those hands have a vice grip on his waist, and it only has Wooyoung going even harder—he’s not sure how San still hasn’t come. He might have just landed his dream man tonight, he thinks, because San’s _loud,_ little gasps and deep whines tumbling out of his mouth.

It’s odd, Wooyoung thinks. Well, maybe not odd, but he’s never had a partner as vocal as San is. But he embraces the change regardless because it’s fucking hot, San’s filthy groans that resonate in his ears. It only turns Wooyoung on even more, even though he’s thoroughly ready to pass out. Gunwoo had only let out disappointing grunts as he fucked Wooyoung and came, but San is the complete opposite and he loves it.

This shift is something Wooyoung never saw coming. So he’s filled with the urge to turn around and see for himself just how out of it San is, how he looks when he wants to come. How he looks when does. But the urge to prove himself is even stronger, so he only pushes himself up before slamming back down, ignoring the filthy groan that rings out from behind him, fully focused on the way the muscles in his thighs are burning with the effort.

Then San’s landing another smack on his hip before he grabs, blunt nails digging painfully into his skin.

Wooyoung’s eyes nearly roll back as he loses his train of thought, and it seems that’s what San was waiting for—for Wooyoung to falter in his movements, for the split second where his body gives up on him. Before he can sink back down, San rocks up to meet him halfway, and the sudden motion has a strangled noise escaping him, something so mortifying that it has shame piling up in his gut.

San laughs, voice winded and hoarse. “What, gonna come? Should've known that all you're good for is mouthing off, Youngie.”

Wooyoung doesn’t bother replying, only lifting up and dropping down again. The clap of skin is sharp, echoing in the room, and the loud groan that rattles San’s chest when Wooyoung reaches a hand behind to spread himself wide open has his toes curling.

Shit, his lungs burn. 

He’s always ready to prove a point because he likes—no, _loves_ to win. He loves being victorious, triumphant. He loves earning the bragging rights, seeing the dumbfounded look on his opponent’s face. But maybe he bit off more than he can chew right now, because he’s tired. His knees ache from where they’re pressing into the mattress, and his thighs ache like hell the longer he keeps having to lift himself up to fuck himself onto San’s cock.

Of course even when Wooyoung tries, San’s one step ahead of him. Three, five, even. He’s always going to be ahead of Wooyoung, no matter how hard he tries.

And San definitely won’t let him forget it.

“Aw, tired already?” San says, voice lilting in amusement. There’s fatigue in his voice as well, but it’s probably in Wooyoung’s best interest not to point it out.

Wooyoung can only whine in response, head hanging limply between his shoulders, sweat dripping from the tips of his hair. His hands are fisted in the sheets, cloth twisting between his fingers as he exhales shakily, trying to sink back down on San’s cock with all the grace he had before. But fuck, he _is_ tired. He played the game and no matter how much he tries to convince himself that they’re at a stalemate, he knows San’s checkmated him. He teased San enough, edged him too, but somehow it still feels like he’s been defeated, even while he’s sitting on San’s cock like this with essentially all the power.

He’s been doing this for so long that everything below his knees has turned into TV static and his thighs are going to fall off. It _burns._ It burns and it stings and it aches like hell but now he knows that all he’s done the whole time is rile himself up just as much as he’s edged San. The only person to blame for his exhaustion is himself. Damn his weak stamina. Maybe if he hadn’t spent so fucking long refusing to get laid and teasing San like this, he might have had a chance.

Is that what San wants him to think? That he could’ve submitted in the first place and gotten what he wanted so much faster?

“Gonna make me do all the work, is that it?” San whispers, wicked and cruel—gleefully, like the motherfucker that he is. “Can’t do anything yourself, can you?”

Even though San can’t see, Wooyoung’s skin blossoms with rubies and peaches, adding to the vermillion that’s already there from exertion, and God, he doesn’t need to be reminded of the fact. What’s worse is that it feels like he’s gotten even closer to the brink just by the words that San throws at him like this, shoves down his throat. San is mean—mean in all the ways he pushes Wooyoung to the edge, mean in all the ways his rough hands are an inferno against Wooyoung’s skin, and most of all, mean in all the ways that he owns Wooyoung despite all of Wooyoung’s attempts to convince himself otherwise.

It doesn’t matter. 

It simply doesn’t matter how much Wooyoung acts up like this, doesn’t matter how much he tries to gain the higher ground, doesn’t matter how much he thinks he’s winning. San will always have Wooyoung at his beck and call. The realization has tears lining his eyes again, has him going absolutely delirious because he still wants whatever San has to offer him.

He’s tired and he’s ready to give up, ready to take whatever San is going to make him take.

He’s ready to beg San to take care of him.

And judging by the faint laugh that comes from behind him, San knows it too.

“Please,” he rasps, stumbling on the words that follow. “Sannie, please. _Please."_

Wooyoung feels like he’s ready to collapse again, no matter how awkward the position would be if he did. He’s helpless like this, sweat pouring off of him in buckets, stuck on San’s cock and unable to move another inch as he just trembles with exhaustion. His mental fortitude is crumbling, and his body is already giving up. San gives no reaction even when Wooyoung’s voice cracks, cheeks on fire in embarrassment.

But then there it is, the timbre of that gentle voice—condescending, sadistic. Just how Wooyoung likes it. “Please what?”

“San,” he whimpers, the whine trembling in his throat. Shit, is that even his voice? “Come _on,_ please.”

“You gotta tell me what you want, baby, or I can’t help you.”

Wooyoung has never wanted to strangle someone more.

(And no, not in a kinky way.)

Fuck. _Fuck San,_ he thinks furiously, fuck him for making Wooyoung feel this way, for making Wooyoung say it when he already knows what Wooyoung wants, what he’s been wanting for ages. Fuck him for somehow managing to humiliate him even more than Wooyoung ever thought possible, for taking his pride and tearing it into tiny pieces before scattering it in the wind. It’s a punishment, he knows. It’s punishment for thinking he can get away with talking back and doing whatever the fuck he wants. But he likes it anyway.

Wooyoung doesn’t think he’s ever resented a partner like this, a hatred so bitter yet sweetened by lust because Wooyoung doesn’t just _want_ San.

He needs him.

And Wooyoung’s never needed anyone before. Not like this at least. His own hands could do the job just fine, never anyone else. But San’s taken the whole board and flipped it upside down along with Wooyoung’s whole world. Internally, Wooyoung doesn’t know how he feels about that, but externally, his dick seems to welcome the change.

“I—I want—” he breathes, voice barely audible, barely able to get the words out over the sound of his ears buzzing, of his lungs screaming for air. He doesn’t need to take a minute to think about what he wants, but he does need a minute to get his mouth to work. “Sannie, I wanna come. P-Please?”

“You wanna come?” San says warmly, and the feeling of his hand dragging along Wooyoung’s hip has him shivering again, his touch almost like a lover’s. “Want Sannie to help you?”

“Yes, please,” Wooyoung whispers. “Please, Sannie.”

“Tell me you’re sorry and I will.”

What.

What the fuck.

He’s infinitely more ashamed by the fact that the words slip out way too easily.

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung gasps with absolutely no hesitation. “I’m sorry—Sannie, please—”

He’s pretty sure his eyes are glazed over, cheeks wet from when he had been crying into the wall, and the slightest turn of his head has him shoving down a pitiful sob because San is staring at him with that fucking grin, eyes dark and intent as they look on at Wooyoung’s shaking body. His thighs are feebly twitching, unable to stop the trembles that keep wracking his spine. The smile on San’s face changes into something a little more tender, a little more soft. He looks fond, Wooyoung thinks, the way those eyes crinkle in the corners. 

“Sorry for what?”

Fucking hell.

Wooyoung always knew he liked it when it hurt. 

He must have underestimated just how much, and he must have underestimated just how much words could affect him. Simple dirty talk with shitty one-liners that belong to a porn script isn’t going to cut it—Wooyoung likes it filthy and obscene and as nasty as it could get. Too corny? He would burst into laughter and walk right out. But when it was done right…yeah, he might just propose. If anyone had taken the time to actually try, maybe they’d realise that even a few words could have Wooyoung dripping, could have him immediately bending over and presenting his ass, ready to get fucked at any given second.

And now, he’s ready to give in.

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung starts, voice shaky. “I—I was being _bad_ and—and I tried to make you angry, ’m sorry, Sannie, please— _please—”_

“Are you?” San asks quietly. 

The smile’s still there, ever present and teasing in the worst of ways. It’s not even like Wooyoung can complain about this—he signed up for this willingly, set himself up to get absolutely wrecked in exchange for one night with a man that he is pretty sure might just be Satan himself. He can’t complain, not at all. Not when he thoroughly enjoys it, not when he wants to see how long it would take until San makes sure Wooyoung doesn’t even have the brain capacity to even speak, let alone think.

“Yes— _yes,_ Sannie,” Wooyoung whimpers, trying to keep himself upright, his elbows threatening to buckle underneath him. Shit, he’s ready to cry. He honestly might because there’s a lump in his throat and he’s so sensitive he hasn’t been able to stop shaking for ages and San’s still smiling and—and fuck, Wooyoung’s gone. “’m sorry, Sannie, please—Youngie's sorry, _I’msorry_ —”

It’s just like how he thought it would be.

The smile drops, and San’s quiet. Those few seconds feel like centuries with the way those eyes bore holes right through him, and Wooyoung can’t help but sniffle, his bottom lip trembling when he sees the way San gazes at him consideringly. The look is intent, focused, assessing. He doesn’t remember seeing San look at him like this yet; it’s been mischievous smirks and sly smiles but never quite like…this. Wooyoung’s been naked in front of him for ages but for some reason, this look makes him nervous.

It almost feels as if just San’s stare alone is stripping him of everything, leaving him bare and vulnerable. 

Open.

“Hey,” San says hoarsely, his hand tracing a trail down Wooyoung’s spine, down his thighs and back up again. There might as well be flames on his fingertips.

“Huh?” Wooyoung is no longer capable of formulating words.

“Turn around.”

Fuck.

Thank fucking God, he thinks, failing to suppress the moan that rattles his chest when he pulls away, feeling San’s cock slide out when he shifts on his knees. It’s a slow drag, and Wooyoung’s eyes roll back even from the wet slide, a weak groan tumbling out when he feels the head catch onto his rim again. Then he’s shuffling around, crawling up, reaching close enough to get his thighs around San’s waist properly and nearly failing in the process.

Now, he can see San.

He looks good.

Of course he does.

Wooyoung thought San looked good while he was touching himself, but the sight of San under him like this is even better, he thinks, unable to look away from the view. San’s gone from sitting against the headboard to lying down, his hair in a charcoal halo on the pillow. He can vaguely remember the way San had shifted underneath him, but to see the way his throat looks when his head is tilted up to stare right back at Wooyoung, has that faint buzzing in his ears returning in no time.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of San’s face at all, not even when he reaches behind him to hold San’s cock and guide it inside, easing down slowly. The look on San’s face doesn’t change—or it does, just barely. Wooyoung is lucky he’s got his eyes trained on the man under him because he can see the way San’s jaw clenches, the way he lets out a shuddered exhale at the feeling of Wooyoung around him, tight and warm.

Wooyoung lets himself drop all the way, lurching forward with a groan when he feels himself take San’s dick to the very base. But he doesn’t move.

Because he can’t.

“Wooyoung,” San breathes, and Wooyoung shivers when he hears his name fall from those pretty lips, when he feels those large hands settle on his hips again, wrapping all the way around his back to cage him in. “You might wanna hold onto something.”

“What?”

San plants his feet firmly into the bed and fucks up, _hard,_ drawing a shout from Wooyoung’s throat. The movement is so abrupt it has Wooyoung scrambling to reach over and grab onto the headboard. It’s a miracle he even manages, because San’s hips snap up again, hands roughly pulling him in even closer, and it’s so sudden that it has his hands slipping along the edges of the wooden headboard as if it’s glass or something.

It might as well be, because San only laughs when he sees Wooyoung barely manage to avoid knocking his head into the hard surface. Either way, it doesn’t look like San particularly cares about it and—and it’s true, though. They’re just two people having a good time, and San seems to be more than willing to take care of Wooyoung.

Wooyoung’s not going to complain about the fact that he nearly gave himself a concussion because San’s fucking up into him again, finding _just_ the right spot in a matter of seconds, and his brain dissolves before he can continue that train of thought.

A startled moan climbs out of his throat when he feels San splay his hands over his hips, dragging Wooyoung down hard. San lets out a breathless laugh when his hands slip again, nearly collapsing. Fuck, it’s good. It’s really fucking good, because it’s hard and it’s fast just like it was when he was getting fucked against the wall, but it’s even better now because the rough pace that San sets has him jostling in San’s lap like he weighs nothing.

San isn’t fucking Wooyoung anymore—San is fucking _into_ him like the only thing he’s good for is getting fucked, and that wrenches a sob from his throat.

“Is it good, Youngie?” San asks, voice ragged with the effort. “Does it feel good?”

 _This_ is what he wanted.

 _This_ is how he likes it.

“Fuck, yes—‘s good,” Wooyoung whimpers, and the sound shakes on its way out of his mouth. “So good, Sannie, thank you, _thank you—”_

Wooyoung was already close before San switched their position, so he can already feel himself about to teeter over the edge again. There are knots in his stomach and his skin is tightening, limbs frozen as his brain tries to send the rest of his body a simple order of _hold the fuck on._ Whenever San fucks into him, he’s sending Wooyoung’s body up—this way, San can watch him all he wants. In turn, he can see the man under him just the same.

Not that it’s easy, though.

It’s a different kind of struggle to focus on keeping himself upright while staring at San’s dark and inviting eyes because it only makes him feel like he’s going to fall. Fall literally or metaphorically, he doesn’t know, but he does know that the way San’s watching him with a slight smug grin has goosebumps erupting all over his arms, has shivers wracking his spine. Like this, he’s leaning over San, fingers struggling to hold onto the headboard because his fingers won’t _stop fucking slipping._

He’s suspended just barely above San's lap, and even if he had a choice, he doesn't think he would care about letting San do as he pleases. This is just too good to turn down. He's more than content to let San keep fucking up into him, and it’s clear that San has noticed—a breathy laugh escapes him when he sees the way Wooyoung's mouth has gone slack, the way he looks back at San with teary eyes, the way the little furrow between his eyebrows has returned. 

God, he's close.

One snap of San’s hips to the right spot has his hands losing their grip on the edge, and then he’s falling forward. His head barely misses the wood as he collapses, his chest sticking to San’s with sweat as their skin meets. His mouth’s pressed against San’s shoulder before he’s shoved up again, and then he’s muffling a cry into San’s neck because he’s flattened against San like this, his cock trapped between them and rubbing against San’s abs with every movement, a dripping mess.

It’s so good and he’s so close and he doesn’t think he can hold on anymore, not with San’s cock hitting all the right places inside of him, not when he’s stretched out like this. Not when he feels this full, and not when he’s as overstimulated as he is with his cock rubbing against San’s stomach. He’s crying, tears clinging to his cheeks and all over his face and he just knows that the makeup that Yeosang did is more than a little smudged.

Ruined. Just like him.

He’s a complete mess, drooling into the pillow, hiccuping on his moans. “Sannie, Sannie, can I please come? ‘m gonna come, Sannie, _please—_ please let me come, _Sannie—”_

It’s obscene how Wooyoung’s voice rises in pitch with every word, how his mouth forgets what language is until he’s just sobbing incoherently with every perfectly-calculated thrust right to his prostate. God, he doesn’t think he’s ever cried with a partner, and San doesn’t even have to try. He can’t even focus on the fact that this is completely uncharted territory for him—that he has never once experienced something like this before, not even with people that he’d dated. He can’t focus on it at all, not when he’s thoroughly trapped in San’s strong arms like this, not with the knowledge that he’s getting fucked open like this, the slick sounds of him losing his mind on San’s cock like this.

For the first time in his life, Wooyoung thinks he might like it.

It goes against his nature, to submit in any way. But nobody ever knew how to handle him, and handle him properly at that. San has exceeded all of Wooyoung’s expectations, and maybe he’s even ruined sex with anybody else for Wooyoung. 

The way San’s mouth presses against his shoulder only tells him that San knows it—San knows that he owns Wooyoung. He knows that he’s got all of Wooyoung, unadulterated and wholly focused on him.

It might only be for the night, but for the first time, Wooyoung wants to know what it would be like if that wasn’t the case. Would it be like this every night? Would San fuck him dumb into his bed whenever he wants? Or would San take his time, edge him for hours on end? Would San want to switch it up sometimes and gently take him apart? Or would San make him come over and over with just his fingers and his mouth?

He likes the thought, so much that it’s going to send him over the edge.

“S-Sannie, can I please— _please_ —can I come—” Wooyoung whines, all choked up. God, he sounds ruined, his words reduced to wanton, unfiltered desire. “Sannie, please, _I need it_ —please, _Sannie_ — _”_

“You can come, Wooyoung,” San groans into his skin. “C’mon, baby, you can come.”

And then Wooyoung loses it as his second orgasm of the night rips through him even harder than the first. He spasms in San’s hold as he screams, every muscle of his going rigid as his vision disappears and every nerve ending in his body is set alight. It’s even more wet between them as Wooyoung’s cock pulses against their stomachs, come spurting out with enough force that he has a fleeting thought that he can feel some of it on his chest. He clenches down on San’s cock so hard that it feels somehow bigger than before, feels like he’s all fucked open to the point where he can feel just how his rim’s stretching around San.

He vaguely hears San cursing as well before the man’s groaning, “Fuck— _fuck,_ baby, _‘m gonna come—"_

“Inside, Sannie,” Wooyoung begs, his exhausted vocal cords giving up on him. How is he even talking? He doesn’t really think San needs a reminder but it can’t hurt to reiterate. 

He manages to get it out in between thrusts, yelping with each snap of San’s hips because he’s so deliciously overstimulated and every inch of his body is singing with the exquisite combination of pleasure and pain. He’s never had anyone push his body to the very limit like this, to the point where he has black spots scatter across his field of vision. Shit, he can’t even _see_ straight. “Inside, wan’ it inside—Sannie, please come inside me, please— _pleasepleaseplease—”_

There’s not much else Wooyoung registers before San yells out a _“Fuck!_ ” and shudders under him, his hips stuttering once, twice, and then—

San bites down on the junction of where Wooyoung’s neck meets his shoulder, so hard that Wooyoung’s pretty sure he just broke the skin because it fucking _hurts._ It hurts like a _bitch,_ but he can’t even think about the wound that the man just left on his skin because San’s coming inside him just how he had wanted. He thrashes in San’s unshakable hold, wailing and sobbing as he feels San’s come, hot and thick, fill him up. San groans into his skin, and he can’t help but keen weakly when he feels the vibration rattle in his own throat.

The man’s hips tremble with the aftershocks of his orgasm, Wooyoung whimpering when San’s teeth release their hold on his skin, his tongue smoothing over the sensitive spot.

Wooyoung loses track of time, not even focused on the blurry indigo that swims in his line of sight. He’s so out of it that he genuinely cannot tell how long it’s been because the only thing his brain has the mental capacity to concentrate on is the feeling of San’s arms wrapped around him, fingers stroking at his skin while his cock stays inside. _Full._ So fucking full that he feels like he’s delirious. Maybe he is, because he’s got drool all over his chin and he can’t even make proper sounds anymore. Either way, he’s stuck on the deep sting inching its way up his back.

They’re both breathing heavily, the only sounds in the room that of their racing heartbeats and unbridled pants. His shoulder _throbs._ Everything hurts but feels so _good_ at the same time and Wooyoung doesn’t think he’s ever come that hard before.

He’s on cloud nine, cloud ten even. Is that a thing? He hasn’t been able to think rationally at all since he’s met San, or if he’s being completely frank, he hasn’t been thinking at all since he let Yeosang convince him to ditch work. And boy, is he glad he did.

But despite all the thoughts that this could be something more, Wooyoung doesn’t need to be mistaking lust for love. He doesn’t need to be waxing poetic about how San has stars in his eyes or whatever the fuck. He doesn’t need any more boy problems—maybe he’ll consider a serious relationship in ten years when he’s got a stable career and income. This is a quick hookup and nothing more for now.

Again, they’re just two strangers with unbeatable sexual chemistry. It’s a simple solution to a problem, and as far as Wooyoung’s concerned, it’s the same on San’s end. If he has to fight himself to ignore the fact that he wants to see where this can go—what him and San could be, if Wooyoung stayed longer than the night—then he will. It just goes against everything he stands for, and even if he likes that he’s willing to do anything to get on his knees for San again, he just can’t.

One-time things were quick, easy and effective—convenient.

It doesn’t matter if San’s cock is still inside him.

Wait.

San’s still inside him.

_Oh._

He’s been so caught up in his own head after all of it that it takes San shifting underneath him for him to realise that _oh,_ he’s still on top of San, and he’s filled to the brim with San’s come. Shit, it’s disgusting, the way a small whine slips out when it registers. Wooyoung feels San kiss along the slope of his neck, whisper something into his ear, but he doesn’t hear what it is. He’s too focused on how he’s so full of San, how San’s come is hot inside of him, how San is rubbing little circles on his back, every drag of his fingertips on Wooyoung’s skin tortuously slow.

And then San’s moving, eliciting a small surprised whimper from Wooyoung when he’s maneuvered onto his side, opposite San, their bodies still connected. He’s so out of it that he can’t even be bothered to rearrange his limbs into a more comfortable position, so San does it for him, moving Wooyoung’s leg over his hip so he can squeeze Wooyoung’s thigh. His hand is gentle and deliciously warm, and Wooyoung can’t help the way he leans into the touch, involuntarily making a small noise in the back of his throat.

“—o well, you did so well for me, sweetheart,” is what Wooyoung barely manages to catch as his eyes slip shut. He can’t hear very well because it feels like he’s underwater, everything muffled and muted by the buzzing in his ears. San’s hand slides along the length of his thigh before it skims his side, his body jolting before San’s palm settles on his hip, squeezing gently.

He’s still shaking, though he doesn’t mean to. It’s satisfying, feeling this full. The ache that lingers in his thighs, his hips, feels like a delicious burn that Wooyoung is more than grateful to experience.

Honestly, it’s one of the things he used to live for, before he forgot what it was like to have something like this from the touch of another. But even then, even if he spent most of his time in strangers’ beds, he’s never had it like this—he’s never had someone give him the time. He feels so full, San’s come not leaking out in the slightest. He feels small, and he’s so used to being such a loud character that the change in dynamic is giving him whiplash. He hates himself for wanting to drift away into nothing like this, pushed to his very limits while San carefully pulls him back, puts all of his pieces back together.

_Kyokusei._

Polarity.

San traces over Wooyoung’s cheeks with his tongue, mouthing over his tear tracks, trailing kintsugi kisses over his jaw to fill the cracks that San left on him, molten gold melding all the pieces together, decorating the precious scars that linger on his skin. He’s more than one-dimensional, more than just rough in bed, more than just making Wooyoung cry. He’s butterfly-wing touches in zentangle patterns on Wooyoung’s hips and arms, whispering encouraging words and sweet nothings in the nearly-nonexistent space between them, making sure that Wooyoung feels safe in his most vulnerable state.

The juxtaposition, the dissimilarity, the divergence is beautiful.

And Wooyoung resents it.

“—nnie,” Wooyoung mumbles hoarsely. He’s too tired to even clear his throat.

“What is it, Youngie?” San asks. His voice is unimaginably soft. If Wooyoung didn’t know better, then he would’ve thought that San didn’t have the capacity for such a tenderness, but he apparently does, and that makes him all the more insufferable.

Fuck San for being perfect.

“—nk you, Sannie, thank you, Sannie,” Wooyoung murmurs, his breathing evening out as he fights the urge to succumb to sleep.

“Good boy,” San breathes. Wooyoung knows that he’s good. San didn’t even have to ask him. He did it all on his own.

San’s hand reaches up from Wooyoung’s waist to card through his hair, move his sweaty bangs out of his eyes, tuck stray locks behind his ear. Fingertips ghost down Wooyoung’s cheek, trail along his neck, trace the marks he’s left on Wooyoung’s skin, thumbing across the bruises that have already begun to blossom in purples so rich Wooyoung wants to swim in them. He leans into the touch, sighing happily because he feels something he’s never really felt before. He trusts that San will take care of him, trusts that San will have open arms when he’s plummeting down from his high, trusts that San will know what he needs when he needs it.

He feels—he feels—

Loved.

He pushes the thought away as soon as it appears and banishes it to the recesses of his brain because _no,_ that is _illegal_ and he’d rather be in horny jail than simp jail. He really is touch-starved and is seriously considering pursuing a relationship with the first person who even paid attention to him after six months. All it took was just a few nasty lines and a mouth against his neck and a dick in his ass. God, he needs to get it together. Luckily he can’t dwell on the thought any longer before San is speaking again.

“Hey, hey, wake up, baby. You can’t sleep yet,” San says, his voice husky and somehow a hundred times more sexy than it was before. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of Wooyoung’s mouth, causing Wooyoung to make a protesting noise in the back of his throat. “I told you, didn’t I? One more.”

Oh, shit. That’s right.

San had said that Wooyoung was going to give him two more, make him come twice more after the first time. He doesn’t know how the hell San’s going to do the last one, especially since tiredness is currently beckoning Wooyoung to unconsciousness.

His eyelids are so heavy, and he genuinely doesn’t care if San doesn't ever pull out, if they stay like this until the morning. He feels comfortable like this.

Safe.

But then he’s roused from his almost-slumber by San, who reaches between them. Wooyoung’s pulled back from limbo when he feels San’s touch against his stomach, hissing in oversensitivity when San’s fingers accidentally brush against the head of his cock. He’s confused for a split second before he realizes that oh, San’s got Wooyoung’s come on his fingers, and _oh,_ they’re prodding at Wooyoung’s lips.

Obviously Wooyoung should have expected this.

He obediently opens his mouth, letting San wordlessly slip his fingers inside to press ever so slightly down on Wooyoung’s tongue. He closes his lips around the digits, watching the way San’s eyes glimmer with amusement in the darkness.

Wooyoung’s no stranger to tasting himself, but to be forced to clean San’s fingers off? He’s going to lose his fucking mind. San’s growing smile tells Wooyoung that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

It’s salty with sweat and bitter but he barely notices because it doesn’t matter and he doesn’t care. He’ll do it for San. He’ll do anything for San.

He’s so fucked.

The last time that Wooyoung had San’s fingers in his mouth was on the dance floor at the club. It feels so far away—a fever dream—now, to think that only a couple hours before they didn’t know of each other’s existence. Wooyoung barely remembers the tip of San’s thumb in his mouth, a half-smile playing on his lips as he watched San’s eyes go wide. He remembers teasing San, and he’s so fucking glad he did, because then he never would’ve gotten to see this. Wooyoung never would’ve gotten to see this side of him.

Wooyoung’s eyes are half-lidded as he lazily swirls his tongue around San’s fingers, sucking them clean, fixated on the way the corner of San’s mouth lifts up, taking that fucking ring with it. Whenever he pulls back, he makes sure to lean in to get the mess that he missed, slowly tracing his tongue with careful flicks along the length of San’s fingers before sliding them back in his mouth. The weight feels almost—comforting. Not possessive, but careful, soothing.

He tries not to think about the fact that this could only mean one thing.

A reminder that the night’s not over—that Wooyoung is still San’s.

He’s still San’s to tease, to fuck, to _use._

“Pretty baby,” San whispers, and he looks almost…proud. Like he’s in awe. Wooyoung may have already come twice but the embers of adrenaline in his veins have not yet fizzled out and the expression on San’s face has him trembling. He hums in acknowledgement before pulling off of San’s fingers, a trail of saliva still connecting them to his lips. He opens his mouth, sticks his tongue out to let San see that he swallowed it all, not a drop wasted because he’ll be good for San. 

He’ll always be good for San.

He doesn’t entirely know why this is so important to him. They barely know each other—hell, he doesn’t even know San’s family name. All he knows is that San promised to fuck him good and he actually did it. That they weren’t done yet. But he knows himself well enough to know that he’s slowly giving in—he hasn’t been touched like this in so long, hasn’t been taken care of in so long that he knows he’s almost there, just the slightest bit out of reach.

Close enough that he can almost grasp it.

Maybe that’s it.

The fact that someone is finally taking care of him. He’s not sure if he deserves it. He’s not sure if he even has the brain capacity to think about this, because logically, he knows it’s just him getting caught up in his own head. Maybe San's just being nice or courteous. Even so, Wooyoung isn’t used to it, and maybe that’s why he needs to know if San actually thinks the same.

If San thinks he’s good, too.

“W-Was I good, Sannie?” Wooyoung asks, shaky voice barely above a gravelly whisper, his curiosity getting the best of him. He needs to know. He needs to know if he was good. He needs to know that he deserves what San will give him in return.

In between the _I’m fine_ ’s and the _Maybe next time_ ’s, it always killed him secretly when his exes left him, the disappointment in their eyes adding to the immeasurable number of stones sinking in Wooyoung’s stomach. To always be told that they couldn’t handle him, that they couldn’t give him what he needed.

That he was never good enough.

He’s so tired of spiraling. He’s so tired of trying to convince himself that he’s in control, but his partners win anyway with the last word. With San, it’s different. It’s always been different, right from the start. Even though San had the control from the very beginning, and even though he let Wooyoung have his fun, Wooyoung knows that San can keep up with him, that he’s insatiable as well. That Wooyoung would never have to put up a real fight with real consequences. That Wooyoung can finally relax because San’s like him.

That San understands him, to an extent.

“So good, baby,” San coos, leaning forward to capture Wooyoung’s lips with his, tasting Wooyoung, devouring Wooyoung, but Wooyoung can barely reciprocate because he’s so tired. San wraps his arm around Wooyoung’s waist again, pulling him even closer. “You’re so good, Youngie. Did so well for me, hm?”

He doesn’t know what triggers it. Maybe it’s San’s words, the tone of his voice, the way his body heat bleeds into Wooyoung.

It’s hot.

Too hot.

“Sannie,” Wooyoung whimpers. His body is burning up. “Sannie—”

“What is it, baby?” San asks. His eyes are full of concern, and Wooyoung’s stomach does an involuntary flip because, why does this man care so much?

It just doesn’t make any sense to him. The fact that someone who’s so clearly out of his league would treat him this way. Not even Gunwoo had taken his time like this with him. It was always simple—meet, fuck, sleep. An outlet. But as the nights went on, Wooyoung got busier, and that meant less nights spent together. That means he’s been pent up since before Gunwoo, since he’s been fucked out of his own headspace like this.

But what confuses him—and it might be the fact that he’s finally slipping into subspace—is the fact that a stranger would be so…gentle. Kind.

Considerate.

Wooyoung is good. He wants to be good. It hurts and he wants more and he wants to keep being good, like he’s been all night. The feeling of San’s fingers brushing against his cheek make him want to be even better, and he’s more than embarrassed to feel tears stinging his eyes again.

For reasons other than earlier.

He’s not even getting fucked anymore. It’s just the overwhelming combination of someone fucking him so hard he went dumb and then finally taking care of him afterwards.

A pained moan trembles in his throat when San’s hand cups his cheek, thumb stroking along his cheekbone in a touch so tender that a tear actually escapes.

“Wooyoung,” San murmurs, and his finger brushes the tear away. It has Wooyoung inhaling sharply, and he knows that if he opens his mouth then a sob’s going to burst out. It’s almost too much, he thinks, the way San’s got him dazed and needy and desperate—things he’s never felt before. It’s confusing, but maybe only because his brain genuinely can’t process anything anymore. He’s full, completely fucked out, and he still wants more. 

He can only let out a strangled whine in response.

San’s other hand comes up, and _oh,_ Wooyoung thinks. He’s holding Wooyoung’s face gently. He doesn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that, like they—cared, if that’s the right word. Not that he can think too deep into it, because his eyes are starting to burn again. He can’t bring himself to flinch away like he normally would because he doesn’t have the energy. His eyes flutter shut because he can’t stand to look at San anymore—he’s going to cry if San keeps it up. The words that follow make his throat close up.

“Hey, hey, Wooyoung,” San says quietly. His palm is searing against Wooyoung’s skin. “Look at me, baby. You okay?”

He isn’t entirely sure how to answer that, even after he manages to open his eyes. He’s okay—more than okay, really—but something about San in general overwhelms him to his very core. There’s something about how gentle those eyes look aimed at him while those pink lips say the filthiest things in return that simply reduce him to…whatever this is. It doesn’t take someone who’s got enough experience with this sort of dynamic to understand why the words sit heavy on his tongue. He can’t seem to say _yeah, I’m okay,_ a little whimper slipping out instead. He knows it’s because the dam is broken and it’s finally here.

He’s finally lost it.

Thank fucking God that San’s noticed too, because his voice returns, soft and tender. “What’s your colour, sweetheart?”

Colour?

What’s his colour?

Shit, he can’t think.

Wooyoung can’t help the way his eyes screw shut again. His head is pounding, and his breath is coming out short. Quick. Overwhelmed might be an understatement, but he wants it anyway. Shit, what if San stops? He doesn’t want that. Not at all. San’s mouth is near him, and the only reason he can tell is because he can feel the warm breath against his lips. There’s a buzzing in his ears that won’t die down, not even when San repeats the question quietly, “Wooyoung, what’s your colour?”

“Hurts,” Wooyoung whines weakly, his voice wet with tears. He’s so full, too full. San’s come inside him is still hot and every inch of his skin feels like it’s been scrubbed raw. He feels like his entire body’s been set ablaze and he can’t fucking think and it _hurts,_ so why the fuck does he want San to keep touching him like this? “Sannie, it hurts.”

“Wooyoung,” San says, and his voice is still soft but it’s stern, too. The sound of it makes Wooyoung open his eyes, as hesitant as he is. The look in San’s eyes is imploring—cautious. It takes the next few words that fall out of San’s mouth for him to snap out of it and actually understand what the man was trying to say. “I need to know what your colour is, or I’m going to stop.”

The ringing in his ears clears in a matter of seconds. Just the mere mention of San stopping now has his blood running cold. He doesn’t want it to stop. He doesn’t ever want it to stop. He’s not ready for it at all, and the panic that bubbles up in the pit of his stomach at the idea of San stopping now has him swallowing thickly, ignoring the lump in his throat. He doesn’t want it to end—he wants everything. He wants everything San’s willing to give him.

It’s why he even manages to respond at all, voice breathless and desperate. _“Green.”_

San’s silent for a moment. It’s almost as if he’s looking straight through Wooyoung in search of something, but it seems that he’s deemed whatever he’s seen as truthful enough that he leans in, palms warm against Wooyoung’s cheeks, and then he’s pressing his lips onto Wooyoung’s forehead. San just kissed his forehead. Shit. _Shit,_ he thinks, _I’m so fucking screwed._ Those lips, that touch feels like a lover’s—sweet. Warm. Too fucking warm.

Another whimper slips out again, and he hates that air catches in his throat when he feels San smile against his skin, gently guiding Wooyoung onto his back, San hovering over him.

For some reason, even the sound of the sheets rustling under their bodies has Wooyoung trembling under San’s weight. Whenever San shifts even a little bit, he can feel the way come starts to drip. Is it leaking? Fuck, he doesn’t want it to leak yet. He wants San to fill him up still. He wants to know how it would feel by the end of the night, to have come dripping everywhere, making a mess of his ass, have it look so pretty sliding down the curve of his thighs that San only has to take one look before he's ready to fuck Wooyoung again, fill him up again.

Comeslut. That’s what Wooyoung is.

He can’t even find it in himself to care, because it’s true. Normally he’d shy away from even the idea because Wooyoung’s really not a whore (though Yeosang would beg to differ) nor does he belong to anyone, let alone a stranger who he’s probably never going to see again, but something about this is different. Something about this has him too…willing and ready to put everything that he believes in aside.

If San is the devil, then Wooyoung is more than ready to make a deal with him.

The way San’s looking at him right now, body suspended above his own, pressing him into the sheets, has his throat going dry. He’s still staring at Wooyoung with that expression on his face—unreadable. Not exactly blank, because his eyes are still earnest, wide and pretty. If he was any more coherent, Wooyoung might even call it fond, because San’s eyes crinkle in the dim light as a slow gentle smile makes its way onto his face.

Wooyoung doesn’t know why the sight has his heart sinking, considering he’s gone further with this stranger than he has with anyone else.

He can’t help but look away, eyes dropping from San’s face to…San’s chest. Fuck. For a second, he had forgotten the dragons that decorate the man’s chest, and he had also forgotten just how much he wanted to touch them. Trace them. Feel the way the skin raises underneath his fingertips. If he had any strength left, he would lift his head to taste them, too. But he doesn’t, so he sticks to admiring them instead, trying to commit this to memory—the way the black swirls around the lines of his muscles before they dip into gentle strokes of ink against ivory.

Now up close like this, being able to study them like this, Wooyoung can see that the designs are intricate, every little curve so detailed that he’s mesmerized. He doesn’t think he could ever get bored of looking at San. Especially not the fucking ink that adorns the man’s skin, lighter than his own. He’s always liked his men rough and bad, but San somehow makes it beautiful and elegant, too. Wooyoung can’t help himself when he sees how the dragons curve around San’s shoulders as he takes a breath, eyes still aimed right at Wooyoung.

He doesn't waste a second before he lifts his hands up weakly and places them right on San’s chest, his fingers barely ghosting over the skin. And there it is, the uneven edges that he was looking forward to exploring, to mapping out with his fingertips. It feels even better than he imagined.

San exhales shakily, watching Wooyoung, waiting for Wooyoung to drink his fill of him.

“Pretty,” Wooyoung whispers. He doesn’t even mean for the word to come out, but it does and the sharp inhale that comes from above him has him lifting his gaze, flushing when he sees the way San’s eyes have darkened.

The man lets out a low chuckle, his tongue darting out to wet his lip, and Wooyoung immediately looks back down in embarrassment because he can’t handle the fire burning in San’s pupils. Heat flushes his skin, his body oversensitive already. God, does he only have to look at San for him to feel like he’s going to burst? That might be the case because his hands won’t— _can’t_ —stop fucking roaming, sliding along the wide expanse laid bare just for him, obsidian spirals that twist around in a puzzle so wonderful Wooyoung wants to worship it.

Balance.

It’s almost like alchemy—or maybe it is. Tracing the lines, thick to thin, every delicate streak contrasting with the paleness of his palm, feels like a shift in dynamic that Wooyoung is way too eager to accept. It’s an equivalent exchange—Wooyoung’s giving up his control to find pleasure in the hands of a stranger who’s holding him more carefully than anyone ever has. It terrifies him that this interaction could be so…equal. That this could be the perfect balance that Yeosang had been rambling on about back then.

Balance, balance, balance.

He already knows that San is capable of bringing him down, a rough tide pulling Wooyoung under when he gets too high up, too cocky. But Wooyoung wants to tip the scales again and see what it's like if he’s drowning instead. He wants to see if San would be this gentle, lift him up back to the calm even when he’s sinking, submerged. He wants to know what it would be like if he was here for longer than just a single night.

And that’s not something he’s ever thought before, nor is it something he ever wants to think about, which is probably why he has to swallow around the lump in his throat to get rid of the sudden dryness. He doesn’t want to consider that this isn’t just about the fact that he’s probably in subspace, because this isn’t a calming feeling. He’s not floating peacefully like he was earlier. He’s stuck in a whirlwind and he has no idea how to make it out, but the real problem is that he _likes_ it. It’s the fact that just one night with this stranger is more enjoyable than the months he spent dating Gunwoo—or literally anyone else.

It’s the fact that a mere stranger knew more about him—his _body,_ his mind corrects him—within the short timespan of a few hours than anyone else he’s been with.

But then San’s leaning down to kiss him again.

His lips have obviously not changed from the last time they made out, but it seems that Wooyoung has forgotten just how good of a kisser San is, as cheesy as that sounds. His lips are plush, featherlight, testing close-mouthed and curious. Wooyoung just about dissolves into the mattress because of San’s duality. It continues to blow his mind—how could someone so domineering be so attentive and gentle like this?

Wooyoung finds even the concept of the dichotomy difficult to wrap his head around. His doms were always either too mean or not mean enough for his liking, with more cons than pros for him to keep them around. He’s never clicked with someone on a sexual level like this, much less on the first hookup.

It’s like San is made for him, like they were made for each other. San’s entire body covers Wooyoung’s because he’s so _broad,_ and Wooyoung—Wooyoung tightens his arms around San’s neck, locks his ankles around the man’s waist to pull him even closer because close is never close enough. Because he’ll take as much as he can get with this. He’ll make these moments in between the seconds last.

San’s forehead rests against his when he pulls back, so they’re breathing each other’s air.

San chases after his lips again, but the little devil on Wooyoung’s shoulder makes him pull back only an inch, just out of reach. A small giggle burbles out of his mouth when he exhales, but he gives in after a moment because it’s San, sighing when their lips finally meet.

The kiss is a gentle little thing, the way San’s lips move against his. A low hum presses against him, the metal wonderfully cold between the slide of their mouths, and Wooyoung can’t help the way his lips immediately part with a whimper, open for San to play with. He never expected any of their kisses to be as vulnerable as this—shy, careful. It’s intoxicating, Wooyoung thinks, as his arms curl around San’s neck and he breathes out a soft noise into the kiss, thighs squeezing when he feels San press into him harder.

San sucks at his bottom lip, and there’s instant heat twisting in his gut. It’s embarrassing just how easy it is to fall headfirst into it again. He’s in freefall, inebriated, drunk on the low moans of satisfaction that keep tumbling out of San’s mouth, losing himself to the wet heat pressing against him, sending shivers down his spine. Wooyoung’s wholly consumed by it, but he can’t even complain.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s enjoyed just kissing like this. 

It’s infinite, one kiss seamlessly melting into the next. It’s a dizzying loop but he likes it. He feels like he’s unravelling, tearing apart at the seams whenever San’s skin brushes against his, overheated and flushed, while he takes Wooyoung’s tongue into his mouth. It’s wet and messy and impossibly enthralling, and his blood sings when he feels San’s lips curve into a smile again.

Fuck. _Fuck,_ he thinks, when he feels a little sliver of something inexplicable in his chest. San’s holding his own weight over Wooyoung the whole time, forearms on either side of his head. Time stands still between the both of them, wrapped up in a bubble. San’s chest is pressed just above his, heat radiating off of him, and he _still_ smells like jasmine. Fucking hell. The man only has to shift just the slightest for Wooyoung’s cock to rub against his stomach, and a pained whine slips out.

San laughs.

It’s a soft sound, but that and the feeling of San above him, the curve of his body and the hard edges of his muscles keeping Wooyoung trapped like this is nothing short of exhilarating. He’s falling, falling, falling and he isn’t scared of hitting the ground anymore. Now he’s floating. San took him to the top and dragged it out, and he isn’t ready to come back down yet. And maybe San feels the same way, because he shifts once again, and then Wooyoung feels him roll his hips slowly.

Oh, hell.

Wooyoung almost doesn’t even notice it because he’s caught on the way San is hard again, but then he feels San’s come inside him. With every gentle movement, he can feel the way San’s stretches him wide, his own come as lube. Shit, San really filled him up, didn’t he? There are small _mmm_ s and _ah_ s that keep falling out of his mouth whenever San presses in, his quivering thighs squeezing tightly around the man’s waist. He can feel the come dripping, making a mess of his ass whenever San pulls back even a little bit.

It’s just the two of them, wrapped up in each other. Two bodies melding into one another with kisses as the scorching flame burns away between them. It’s a delicious sting that leaves a deep ache in every fibre of Wooyoung’s body, but he shivers because it’s good. San hums against his lips once more before he pulls away, dropping his head to scrape his teeth over Wooyoung’s jaw. His thighs shake when he feels San groan into his neck, something that sounds awfully similar to _fuck, baby, doing so well for me,_ and he can only moan loudly in response.

It’s not supposed to feel like this.

But it does, and the knot in his stomach tightens.

His hips keep twitching the more San keeps grinding into him, smooth and steady. It’s not a rough movement that jostles him, and it’s certainly not the same kind of pleasure he felt when San was fucking him earlier.

They’re moving in little circles against him, keeping him blissfully full, making sure Wooyoung takes every inch. The stutter of San’s hips and their shared breaths has a strangled sob slipping out, the sound morphing into a needy little whine when San’s teeth graze against his skin again before they sink in. Heat draws a line along the length of his neck much like the pain that has goosebumps erupting all over his body, and—and he knows that San’s making sure he’s okay but he can’t wait anymore.

San’s hair is messy where it sticks to his forehead, and he looks like a fucking vision. And Wooyoung just can’t wait anymore.

It seems that San doesn’t care about taking it slow anymore either, because he shifts carefully, making himself comfortable between Wooyoung’s legs. 

Wooyoung doesn’t even have time to wonder what he’s doing because then San’s moving his hips, pulling back in what seems like slow motion before his hips snap forward with one fluid movement, causing Wooyoung to groan into his mouth. A harsh sound shakes in San’s throat when he does it again, sliding back in with less grace than before. It’s not just Wooyoung anymore, savoring the way San opens him up, the way he’s stretching around that thick fucking length. This way, both of them can feel it. 

Now, San’s forced to feel his own come, too. 

Wooyoung can’t help the small moan that slips out when San fucks into him, his come leaking out onto the sheets and making a wet spot beneath Wooyoung, but he doesn’t care. He can feel it dripping, making a mess of his ass and his thighs but nothing matters anymore because San’s fucking him again just the way Wooyoung likes, just the way Wooyoung didn’t know he needed but he’s addicted to now.

It’s when San suddenly stops that Wooyoung protests with a garbled whimper. But then he’s removing Wooyoung’s legs from where they’re clasped around his waist, moving them carefully over his shoulders and _oh, fuck—_

He’s even deeper now, leaning down and pushing Wooyoung’s flexibility to its limits.

Wooyoung’s knees are touching his own shoulders as his body contorts to San’s will, once again completely at San’s mercy. His eyes almost roll back and he almost comes on the spot because _God,_ San is the answer to so many of the questions he didn’t know he had. His hands automatically grab onto San’s biceps, squeezing down on the muscles for purchase, to ground himself.

“Think you can take it, Youngie?” San murmurs, voice amused. Like the sight of Wooyoung falling apart is laughable. Fuck.

 _“Yes,”_ Wooyoung slurs. He sounds pathetic even in his own ears. “Please, Sannie, I can—I can do it. _Please,_ please fuck me,Sannie—”

He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, much less why he’s begging unprompted. Wooyoung’s the go-getter type, demanding and strong-willed enough to not take shit from anybody. He doesn’t wait around for opportunities to come to him, much less beg for them. Why’s he even begging with San, then? San’s already proven himself to give Wooyoung whatever he wants minus the begging; all Wooyoung has to do is be good.

Obviously, that’s a struggle for him.

But San handled him, and he handled him well. San knew exactly what to say, exactly what to do to have Wooyoung literally on his knees, to have Wooyoung crying his eyes out.

To have Wooyoung begging without a second thought.

San’s lips are on his neck again, Wooyoung barely able to feel the sting because he’s distracted by how he’s once again held in place by San as San fucks into him. All he can do is helplessly whimper, his nails digging into San’s arms as he sets an absolutely brutal pace. He’s going to hard it’s almost like he wants to fuck Wooyoung through the mattress, fuck him into the floor just like he promised back at the club.

“S—” Wooyoung moans. _“Please—”_

He can’t decide if he wants San to slow down because he’s close again, or if he wants San to fuck him harder, to fuck him until Wooyoung can’t do anything anymore. He knows all he needs to do is ask, but what more could he possibly want when San’s fucking him just the way he likes?

“Say my name, sweetheart,” San pants into his mouth, devouring every little sound that slips out of Wooyoung.

“Sannie,” Wooyoung gasps. _“Sannie,_ please—” He can’t breathe, drowning in _San, San, San_ because Wooyoung would have no other—he wouldn’t let anybody else see him like this. He wouldn’t let anybody else touch him like this. He doesn’t want anybody else.

He doesn’t think he could ever want anybody else.

Nobody but San.

“Fuck, you sound so pretty,” San groans. “Love when you say it, baby.”

Wooyoung’s brain, of course, is stuck on the fact that San used the word _love,_ but he can’t think about it for more than a split second because then San’s shifting the angle of his thrusts and Wooyoung lets out a choked scream because it’s good. Even though he’s bent in half to the point where it’s uncomfortable, even though their bodies are sliding together with sweat, even though the wet sound of San’s cock inside his own come is utterly gross, it’s so fucking good, and he’s not going to last more than a minute like this.

Every movement of San’s hips is magnified by a thousand. Wooyoung’s body can’t decide if it’s hot or cold, if it’s feeling pain or pleasure. All he has on his mind is his impending orgasm that’s going to crash over him like a wave pommeling the sand on a beach and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Even if San doesn’t allow him to come, he doesn’t think he can hold it off. He can’t last—he won’t. Not like this, not when San’s abusing his prostate every time his hips snap forward and up.

Whimpers keep bubbling up his throat, pouring out of him incessantly as San groans into his mouth. The sound feels like a kiss, intimate and sensual. Filthy. Perfect. 

He fucks into Wooyoung tirelessly, inching forward with every thrust until Wooyoung’s practically folded in half, until their chests brush against one another. 

Then San’s leaning in to mouth at his neck again, and he can’t stop himself from automatically tipping his head back with a sharp whine. Teeth graze along his throat before San pulls back away with a low laugh, hips slowing just enough that a sob rips out of his chest, indignant and desperate. He needs to come so fucking badly and San still won’t let up, and he’s stuck floating between the contrite kiss against his collarbone and the come that _won’t stop leaking._

For a second, it seems like he won’t be allowed to come again.

But it also seems that San’s decided to take pity on him, because his hips stay consistent in their movement, easing him into a steady rhythm that would finish him in a matter of minutes. Then San’s reaching for his jaw, and he gasps sharply, his mouth falling open when he feels San’s hand close around his throat, thick fingers digging under his jaw and into the sides of his neck for just a second before they relax.

San doesn’t squeeze any harder, but his impossibly warm hand and its weight on Wooyoung’s throat are absolutely fucking perfect.

For some reason, this is even better than the rough pace he set earlier. The way San watches him intently, eyes searching his own to make sure he’s okay, is better than everything they’ve done. It’s enough for Wooyoung to tighten up almost immediately, and his lips part in a silent moan, watching San right back. The eye contact has him shaking, thighs trembling from where they’re pushed back. He knows San can feel the exact moment all the air rushes out of his lungs in one shaky exhale, because those lips hook up into another grin.

San pauses. Wooyoung barely stops a sob from escaping.

“Tap my arm if you want me to stop, okay?” San asks softly. The grin’s still there, but it’s knowing. Careful. The way his eyes flash in the light is enough for Wooyoung to know San’s getting off on just this—just his palm on Wooyoung’s throat is enough for him. He knows he’s staring up at San with a helpless look, eyes wide, mouth slack, a quiet sound slipping out when San gives another shallow thrust, thumb brushing against his skin.

He’s not even fucking squeezing down. His hand just stays there, resting.

Still on Wooyoung’s throat like it was meant to be there.

Then San’s palm squeezes lightly, and his hand lets go of San’s biceps only to fly out and rest on San’s wrist. His own fingers tighten when San fucks into him again, pulling whispers of a moan out of him, a steady stream of _ah-ah-ah_ pouring out with every movement right against his prostate. He’s slipped under, fully, because he can’t even see San’s face above his anymore. Wooyoung knows how he looks—gaze unfocused and eyes glassy, looking like he’s barely present in the moment. Like the only thing he can think about is the hand on his throat and the cock that’s keeping him filled up.

He tries to warn San that he’s going to come, that he’s actually going to pass out, but his mouth doesn’t work. The only thing he can do is moan pitiful semblances of San’s name into San’s mouth, scrabbling at San’s skin, his voice giving up. He can’t help the way his nails sink into San’s wrist painfully, and he’s pretty sure he’s even past the point of babbling nonsense because nothing fucking makes sense anymore other than the fact that he’s so fucking close that it hurts.

There’s no sound; it’s too much of an effort to breathe with the fire in his lungs. All he can do is mouth the ghost of a word.

_Please._

Wooyoung’s fingers close around San’s wrist, clutching hard enough to bruise, but he never says to stop. He never taps San, because he doesn’t want San to stop. San looks beautiful above him, his vision blurry with black spots creeping up over the edges again. He’s not clear, but that’s okay—Wooyoung can see the look in his eyes just fine. He looks just as wrecked as Wooyoung feels, and he knows that’s only because San’s drunk on the control that Wooyoung’s handed over to him.

It’s not even about the fact that San has yet to actually squeeze down and properly choke him. Something about just resting his hand on Wooyoung’s throat feels a lot more intense than anything else. Maybe because in a way, this means that San knows that he’s the one in control, that Wooyoung’s powerless here. Maybe because this way, it’s a challenge—San daring Wooyoung to test him. 

Because this way, he can see how ready Wooyoung is to give up everything for him.

He doesn’t even need to do anything—just the feeling of that rough palm resting on Wooyoung’s neck does the trick and just like that, Wooyoung is San’s, just for the night.

It’s more than enough.

“Sannie—S—” Wooyoung doesn’t know how but he manages to find his voice again. It’s only a clutter of sound, hints of vowels and consonants, barely in a cohesive order. There are no words, only San’s name sweet on his tongue, burning like a shot sliding down his throat, tendrils of flame surging through his whole being. “Sannie, _Sannie,_ Youngie’s gonna—’m gonna—”

San’s eyes pierce right through him. Wooyoung’s not just naked beneath him—he’s naked before him. Wooyoung feels like San can see every part of him, and not just the physical parts. It’s those eyes, that gaze that takes him apart piece by piece. He can barely stand it, his eyes squeezing shut again because of its intensity.

“Look at me,” San commands, his voice coarse with effort. “Look at me, Wooyoung.”

San’s forehead is against Wooyoung’s now, and Wooyoung can feel the little puffs of his breaths against his own lips. He can vaguely feel how wet his cheeks have become, the violent ruby that crept up his neck ages ago now a permanent brand on his skin, staining him so brightly that a slow smile plays on San’s lips. Fuck. _Fuck,_ he thinks, because it only makes the churning in his gut even stronger—only brings him to the edge in a matter of seconds.

Just this is enough.

Being able to look at San like this, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling feels like a privilege—an honor. He could never turn this down. He could never turn San down, he thinks, not when San’s looking at him like this, fucking him silly while his grip on Wooyoung’s throat tightens.

God, he’s full. The burn that comes with San fucking into him, choking on the air he has left in his lungs, is going to tip him over the edge, have him falling headfirst with nothing to save him. And he wants it. He can’t even fucking talk properly, not when San’s hips jerk against him like this, stretching him out and keeping him full. Wooyoung can barely manage anything more than the weak little moans that keep getting punched out of his throat whenever San’s cock presses against his prostate, voice cracking while he’s begging _pleaseSannieplease,_ deep and rough and _hard._

The ringing in his ears is deafening, and he can barely hear San over the sound. 

“You can do it, sweetheart,” San croons, lips almost touching Wooyoung’s. “Just one more, ‘kay?”

Fuck.

Fuck, he’s close.

So close that he thinks he’s going to burst, because he’s pretty sure just those words are enough to make him come on the spot, and the way San’s cock keeps dragging inside him stokes the heat in his stomach.

“‘m gonna come—can Youngie come, Sannie, _please—!”_ Wooyoung whines, his eyes barely opening to gauge San’s reaction, to see if he’ll be allowed. He can barely swallow as he tries not to choke on the words, the fingers around his throat tightening. “S-Sannie, _Sannie_ —’m gonna come—”

San laughs, a deep breathy sound from exertion, but he doesn’t give Wooyoung an answer. Wooyoung moans, his hole fluttering around San’s length as he tries to stave off his orgasm because San hasn’t granted him permission yet. He won’t dare to disobey, even though their night is almost over, because San is—to put it simply—unpredictable. Wooyoung doesn’t think he can take another round of...whatever San has in store for him should he be _bad._

 _“Please!”_ Wooyoung begs mindlessly, a sob threatening to force its way out of his lungs. “Sannie—please let me come, ‘m gonna come, _Sannie—”_

It’s low, almost imperceptible—a husky whisper.

“Then come.”

Wooyoung shatters.

His whole body seizes up as his orgasm slams into him, his back arching up off of the bed as he thrashes, to no avail because he’s wound around San. He comes with a litany of San’s name on his lips, chanting in stolen breaths with the oxygen he no longer has left, cock barely dribbling any come while San keeps fucking him, pressing right against his prostate with every snap of his hips.

He swears he blacks out for a few seconds, but it doesn’t even matter because San’s pounding into him mercilessly when he recovers his senses again. Wooyoung didn’t even realize that he’s actually crying—hot tears streak their way down his temples as he sobs because every single one of his nerve endings is tingling to the point where entire parts of his body have gone numb. He’s letting out unabashed shouts every time San’s skin collides with his because it fucking hurts and he’s so fucking overstimulated that he feels like he’s going to break even more in San’s arms.

San’s grip on his throat relaxes as he moves his forearm back to the bed, his thrusts getting more erratic, hips stuttering as he gets close. Wooyoung can only lie there and take it, fettered by San’s frame confining him on all sides. He’s crying so hard now with ugly unfiltered sniffles, his legs cramping up from being made to hold the position for so long, but he’ll do it for San. He’ll be good for San, do it until San’s done with him, until San says Wooyoung is done.

 _“Mine,”_ San growls against Wooyoung’s neck, his soft hair light against Wooyoung’s jaw.

“Yours,” Wooyoung hiccups, his hands once again finding San’s arms, his grip stronger than ever because he doesn’t want to let San go, doesn’t want San to stop. “‘m yours, Sannie, _yours—_ please, _please—"_

Wooyoung’s hole clenches with the aftermath of his orgasm, his body confused as to why there’s no end to the onslaught of pleasure.

 _“Fuck—_ baby, just like that—” San gasps, his voice gruff and almost cracking with every syllable. “Just like that, baby—”

Wooyoung writhes beneath San, but he can’t move much as shadows of San’s name keep cascading out of his mouth in a torrent of harsh yelps. There is nothing anymore—only the heat radiating from between his legs and the way his hole stretches around San’s cock as San’s rhythm falters.

“‘m gonna fucking come, _fuck—”_ San groans. “Fuck, baby, _Wooyoung—”_

If he’s being honest, Wooyoung doesn’t think his name has ever sounded so…so _pretty_ before. There’s just something about San’s voice, ragged and desperate. Something about the way he says it, the way his voice is ruined and rough, the way his breathing is turbulent as he pants. Through the stars shooting across his vision, Wooyoung can barely make out the concentrated furrow between San’s eyebrows, the way his lips are parted.

He doesn’t know how he does it, but Wooyoung manages to lift his head and capture San’s lips in a kiss, or, as best as a kiss as he can manage. It’s sloppy and wet, but Wooyoung doesn’t care because San’s still gasping _gonnafuckingcome_ and _Wooyoung, Wooyoung_ into his mouth.

San comes with what Wooyoung can only describe as a low whimper, biting down on Wooyoung’s bottom lip as he whines. It fucking _stings,_ and Wooyoung thinks he can taste blood for a moment but he’s not given any time to think about that because San won’t stop moaning against his lips. The movement of his hips is stilted as he fills Wooyoung up for a second time, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath but trail wet half-kisses down Wooyoung’s jaw at the same time. His come is hot inside Wooyoung, burning him up from his very core and the feeling of getting filled up like this has him clenching down so tightly that even San lets out a strangled noise.

It’s silent in the room again, the phantoms of skin against skin dissipating with each passing second. There is only their racing heartbeats and the feeling of more of San’s come inside him, filling him to the brim.

Wooyoung can only stare up at San as San stares back at him. God, this entire night is so ridiculous because Wooyoung can’t understand how he got so lucky. He finds it hilarious in the midst of his delirious mind, feeling the corner of his mouth turn up as he lets out a little giggle. San laughs too, but this time it’s not mischievous or deriding—it’s playful and sincere. The sound makes Wooyoung’s heart warm.

For a second, they’re just staring at each other. San’s eyes glint in the dim lighting, shining with something that looks a little bit like reverence.

Wooyoung would read into it but then San’s shifting, pulling back up with ease while he gently lowers Wooyoung’s legs back down. It’s almost as if he doesn’t even hear Wooyoung’s quiet noise of protest when he leaves the warm body underneath him, because he immediately goes to sit on his knees, running his palms up and down the sides of Wooyoung’s thighs that are still trembling. He doesn’t waste a second before he’s sliding his hands under Wooyoung’s ass and lifting him up.

“Hold it,” he breathes out, and then he’s pulling out.

Wooyoung’s not even given a moment to think about feeling empty because San’s dropping onto his front, kissing down Wooyoung’s stomach, his tongue darting out to catch the dribbles of come from Wooyoung’s spent cock. He flails, hiccuping and panting because it’s _too much,_ but San quickly grabs Wooyoung’s legs and hikes them up over his shoulders again. For a second, San doesn’t do anything but watch. He stares, transfixed, as Wooyoung clenches down, trying to keep the come inside but after getting fucked for that long and getting filled up like this, twice, he can’t help the embarrassed whine that trembles in his throat when he feels it start to seep out. 

He has to bite down on his hand to muffle a humiliated groan when San whistles quietly in appreciation, inching even closer, murmuring, _“Shit,_ look at that. You're dripping, sweetheart.”

The words have him tightening up again, but the action has another bit of come escaping, and _fuck,_ it’s disgusting, the way San laughs quietly at the sight. He doesn’t need to be fully coherent for him to know that he’s been reduced to a complete mess of come, tears, and sweat. Wooyoung’s sensitive enough that even like this, even with his skin set ablaze, he can feel the way it leaks, dirtying the sheets beneath him as he resists the urge to squeeze his legs shut and shit, some of it even coats the inside of his thighs.

Then he feels it—San’s warm breath on his thigh. San’s mouth follows, pressing a gentle kiss to the tender skin, his tongue smoothing over the previous bruises there. Wooyoung twitches, trying to keep still as he lets out broken moans every time San’s teeth drag closer and closer—

Those lips leave his skin for just a second, done with the mess on Wooyoung’s thighs, and then there it is.

He presses his tongue flat against Wooyoung’s rim.

_What the fuck._

Even the lightest touch is enough to have a pained whimper slipping out before Wooyoung can catch it in the palm of his hand over his mouth. Shit, it hurts like hell but the feeling of San’s tongue slowly flicking up, lapping at his hole, is almost enough to make Wooyoung forget the ache. Wooyoung doesn’t even have the energy to hold onto the sheets anymore, having been fucked till his body gave up on him, and it’s clear that San doesn’t care in the slightest because he just gives a little hum of satisfaction, Wooyoung’s head falling back helplessly at the vibrations.

The groan that San lets out when he slides his tongue inside has Wooyoung shaking all over again. He’s so sensitive that even San’s hands on his hips, thumbs pressing into the bones, while he fucks his tongue in and out is going to have him blacking out for real. He almost did for good earlier when he came, but with it drawn out like this, with San slowly dragging his tongue up and down, suckling softly, he thinks it could really happen.

Wooyoung can feel himself rising to the peak again, letting out feeble moans whenever he feels San’s tongue dipping back inside the rim before he flicks it up again in long, broad strokes, getting more frantic by the second. It honestly shouldn’t be possible—that he’s already going to come again so quickly after almost no time—but somehow, with San, it is. The pressure in the pit of his stomach is rising again as San’s motions speed up and Wooyoung can’t think and—

It hits him out of nowhere.

He’s coming _again,_ and he can’t even make a single sound even as San gives it to him like this, messy and depraved. He can barely feel anything other than his heart beating out of his chest, the way it crashes into him, the way it has his entire body twisting and writhing, restricted by San’s arms looped around his thighs. 

Except—

Except it doesn’t stop.

Wooyoung can’t stop fucking shaking, shuddering violently as wave after wave of his orgasm hits him again and again. It doesn’t feel as good as before, and it takes a few seconds for him to realise he’s not even coming properly, that he’s coming _dry,_ body spasming, limbs out of his control. He can feel a smidge of panic rising in him because _what the actual fuck,_ he’s never come this hard and for this long in his life before. The lines of pain and pleasure have long blurred until he can’t tell where one begins and the other ends—almost like they’re one and the same because San doesn’t stop, doesn’t relent.

That’s the last thing he thinks before it all goes black.

He can’t see.

Can’t hear.

Can’t feel.

He doesn’t know how long it is.

The ceiling is fuzzy and swimming before him when he opens his eyes again. Or, barely. Wooyoung is afraid to blink because he knows he’ll end up falling asleep for real. He can’t move anything, every part of his body frozen because it’s all dead weight. But—oh, _oh._ San is kissing his thighs, up his hips. Wooyoung wants to whine because it tickles and he’s so sensitive, but he has no control over his voice.

He’s so out of it that he can’t even make a sound when he feels San let go of him because the sweat that collected where their bodies met is cold against the air of the room. Wooyoung’s not really clingy, but considering that San’s just taken everything he’s ever known and thrown it out the window, it’s a little bit different now. Now that he’s felt that delicate touch against his skin, soothing even though just mere minutes ago, he had fingers digging into his hips, he doesn’t want it to stop. He doesn’t think he can take another moment alone in the bed since San’s footsteps have receded and he can’t even summon the energy to turn his head, and he can feel himself choking up against his will at the thought of being abandoned. Begging in his head for San to please not leave him.

He’s not ready for San to end it just yet.

Nonetheless, every single one of Wooyoung’s thoughts are more than sluggish—nearly at a full stop—with his mind feeling like he did a swan dive into a black hole, like someone tore every single one of his molecules apart and put them back together, inside out and backwards no less. Slipping in and out of consciousness already, he barely registers a quiet voice, something soft on his face, his stomach, his thighs. Tenderly wiping the sweat off and cleaning him up. He sighs contentedly. That’s nice.

But amongst the haze of coming to and fading out, there’s confusion. Aftercare, whether he’s awake for it or not, is something that’s foreign to Wooyoung. Is this how a partner is supposed to treat him? Is he supposed to feel safe like this, to feel cared for like this?

A kiss on his forehead, gentle hands wrapping him in blankets, the bed dipping as a body slips in beside him to cradle him to a warm chest.

It might be a figment of his imagination but he thinks he hears the words _so good for me, baby_ whispered into his ear and feels fingers gently carding through his hair to smooth out the tangles. It’s not too hot nor too cold—just right. For all of his earlier panic, he settles down the second he feels those lips press against his forehead, tender and careful. He can feel the way San’s hand is splayed out on his back, heart beating steady in his chest. It’s startlingly clear even with the clamor in his head, and his mind goes blank as he surrenders to the call of sleep.

He’s tired.

Maybe he should do this more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> san chugged pre-workout before he went to the club x

**Author's Note:**

> find us on twt!
> 
> author 1 (eafa): [@s_uijin](https://twitter.com/s_uijin)  
> author 2 (tian): [@starsandsunsan](https://twitter.com/starsandsunsan)


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